


late night feelings

by gothyringwald



Category: Stranger Things (TV 2016)
Genre: Ableist Language, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst with a Happy Ending, Discussions of Suicide, Fluff and Angst, Friends to Lovers, Getting to Know Each Other, Hanging Out, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Abuse, M/M, Mutual Pining, Neil Hargrove's A+ Parenting, Post-Season/Series 03, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Rating for later chapter(s), Scars, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-06-22
Updated: 2020-09-27
Packaged: 2021-03-04 11:06:51
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 34,323
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24848746
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gothyringwald/pseuds/gothyringwald
Summary: Billy has always been good at talking—at talking big, talking shit, talking his way into beds and hearts. But talking about the things that matter? That’s never come easy.Steve has always swept the uncomfortable things in life under the rug, ignored them until they blow up. But the past few years he’s learned that sometimes it’s better to talk things out. He just never thought Billy Hargrove would be someone he could talk to.But when the two of them keep colliding, finding each other under the cover of night, they discover that sometimes it’s easier to talk to someone you don’t really know. And sometimes you end up knowing that person better than you ever thought you could.
Relationships: Billy Hargrove/Steve Harrington
Comments: 135
Kudos: 277





	1. ONE

**Author's Note:**

> So…I started writing this in November. And I’ve had the idea for even longer than that. Ah well. Better late than never, right?
> 
> Tags are reflective of the fic as a whole and may be added as the chapters develop, but I will note this if it happens. The rating is reflective of later chapters.
> 
> Huge thanks to LazyBaker/granpappy-winchester, socknonny, and womenseemwicked for looking over the plans for this fic at various stages. Super grateful for their help and suggestions! And huge thanks also to LazyBaker/granpappy-winchester for beta-ing for me!!

> ‘We were searching for ourselves in each other.’  
>  - _The Colour of Pomegranates_ dir. Sergei Parajanov
> 
> ‘Did you ever dream you had a friend … Someone to last your whole life and you his.’  
>  - _Maurice_ by E.M. Forster 

  


It’s fifteen minutes after closing on a Saturday night when Steve finds Billy Hargrove in the comedy aisle. The lights are low around this part of the store, so Steve doesn’t see Billy in the shadows at first. 

But Billy is there, kneeling by a shelf, hands curled over his thighs; something about the way he isn’t moving jars in Steve’s chest. 

‘Uh.’ Steve clears his throat. ‘We’re closed.’

Billy doesn’t say anything. Doesn’t move. Doesn’t even blink. 

Steve takes a step forward. ‘Having trouble picking something, huh?’

Silence. Stillness. 

It’s kind of creepy.

‘Are you OK?’

The lights flicker and Steve’s heart stops. What if it’s all happening again? Steve shakes the thought off—the lights in Family Video _always_ do that and, anyway, it _can’t_ be—and takes another step forward until he’s by Billy’s side.

Billy hasn’t moved an inch, the rise and fall of his chest and shoulders the only sign he’s alive. He’s still staring at the shelves. No. Staring _through_ them. 

Steve shifts his weight and follows the line of Billy’s faraway gaze, to where it seems to rest on a video. ‘Oh, that shouldn’t be there,’ he says, and it’s a stupid thing to say, but he doesn’t know what else to do. May as well do his job, right? 

He reaches past Billy, grabbing the copy of _The Blob_ that should be in the horror section, arm brushing Billy’s shoulder.

The simple touch brings Billy to life, and he jerks away, arm lashing out toward Steve as he scrambles back. ‘Don’t touch me.’ He’s breathing hard, eyes flashing, as he pushes himself up.

Steve blinks and fights the urge to offer Billy a hand. ‘Sorry, dude.’ He sets the video aside and folds his arms over his stomach. ‘We’re, um, closed? But I can ring you up if you want to rent anything.’

Fuck. That was a dumb thing to say, too. 

Billy doesn’t respond; his eyes are glassy, glittering in the dim light of the store. He sniffs and rubs at his face.

Maybe he’s high—it’d explain the blank stare and the glassy eyes, would be an explanation Steve can swallow—but he’s wound tight, seems ready to snap. 

Billy shoulders past Steve, stalking toward the door. He grabs the handle and pulls, but the door is locked so it only rattles in its frame. As loud as thunder.

‘It’s locked,’ Steve says. The yellow glow of the streetlights spills inside, mingling with the store’s flickering fluorescents. ‘Sorry, I didn’t realise anyone else was still here.’ 

But Billy is still pulling like he hasn’t even heard Steve. And then he kicks and Steve’s heart leaps into his throat. He doesn’t know if Billy can kick it hard enough to go through the glass, but he doesn’t want to find out.

‘Hey, man, just wait a second.’ Steve grabs Billy’s wrist, pulls his hand away from the door, and steps in front of him.

‘Let me out,’ Billy says, as he jerks out of Steve’s grasp. He reaches past Steve, takes hold of the door again.

‘Hey, hey, hey,’ Steve says, holding his hands up. ‘That’s what I’m _trying_ to do.’

There’s a moment where Billy’s eyes flash and Steve thinks of that night last November, the old Billy—wild and vicious—clear in his mind. But Billy lets out a low, strangled breath and turns away. 

Steve presses his lips together and takes the keys out of his pocket. They slip, nearly fall to the floor, but Steve catches them. He jams them into the door and, before he can open it, Billy shoulders past and shoves it, bursting outside.

Everything in the store is where it should be, so Steve flips off the lights and locks up, stowing the keys away again.

There’s a chill in the air and the sharp, familiar scent of Fall; it braces Steve, clears his mind. He’s surprised to find Billy is still out front, pacing the length of the store, sucking in lungfuls of air.

Steve’s gut roils; he can’t tell if Billy is angry or scared or maybe something else Steve can’t understand. A year ago, Steve would have said it was Billy being a dick, like usual. He was so abrasive, had the shortest fuse of anyone Steve has ever met.

But now, after everything…

‘Sorry about that,’ Steve says, jerking a thumb back at the store. ‘I really didn’t think anyone else was in there.’

‘Maybe you should check properly next time.’ Billy rounds on Steve, pointing a finger at him. ‘Do your fucking job.’

‘Hey, I called out before I locked up, so maybe you should listen, instead of—’ Steve shakes his head. He’s too tired for this. ‘Whatever.’ He looks around; his car is the only one left. ‘You need a ride?’

‘My bike’s across the road.’

Steve’s brows raise. His gaze cuts from Billy’s sharp eyes to his hands. They’re shaking. Steve has seen Billy tear around Hawkins on his motorcycle like he’s in a one-man high-speed chase. Doesn’t seem like the kind of thing Billy should be doing right now but Steve is tired and Billy’s a grown-up. 

‘OK,’ Steve says, eventually. ‘Well. I’ll see you ‘round.’ He takes a step back but doesn’t turn away. Something stops him. ‘You _sure_ you don’t need a ride?’

‘Fuck off, Harrington,’ Billy says, voice rough, but lacking bite.

Steve sighs and heads to his car, making it to the driver’s side and opening the door before he pauses again.

Billy is still standing by Family Video, chewing on his thumbnail, frowning as he stares out across the road.

The old Steve, total asshole Steve, would have left already. It’s not like he owes Billy. But he rests an arm on the roof of his car and calls out, ‘Hey, Hargrove.’

Billy turns. ‘What?’

‘You, uh, wanna keep me company while I have dinner?’ Steve licks his lips. Great. Could have gone with something less weird. ‘My parents have probably eaten already.’ And now he sounds like a little kid who doesn’t want to eat dinner without Mommy and Daddy.

A car goes past, breaking the illusion they’re the only two people left awake. Billy stares over at Steve, face shadowed. ‘You mean at your house?’

‘Uh, yeah,’ Steve says. 

‘Why?’

‘Because I don’t feel like driving out to the all-night diner.’

‘No,’ Billy says, ‘why are you inviting me at all.’

‘Because.’ Steve pinches the bridge of his nose. He doesn’t even know why, but he can’t leave Billy. His eyes dart across the street to where Billy’s bike sits out front of the laundromat. ‘I’ll give you a ride and bring you back for your bike later. If you want.’

Billy tilts his head, the edge of his thumb caught between his teeth. His eyes narrow and there is still tension in his frame but whatever was going on in the video store seems to have passed. After several long moments, he says, ‘You allergic to eating alone or something?’

‘Whatever,’ Steve says, ‘it’s a limited time offer,’ and he gets in the car.

Moments later the passenger door opens, letting in a shock of cold air, and Billy throws himself into the seat. He slams the door shut, glaring at Steve with hot eyes. Like he’s _daring_ Steve to say something.

Steve doesn’t.

The car starts with a rattle he’s been meaning to get checked, and he pulls out of his parking space, and onto the road. He expects Billy to turn the radio on, fiddle with the dials until it’s blasting that shitty music he loves. But he only sits silently, brow furrowed as he stares out the window, breath fogging the glass.

The silence unsettles Steve, though, so he turns on the radio, waiting for a smartass remark from Billy about the pop song blaring, but he doesn’t say anything. It’s weird; Steve keeps expecting a jibe or a threat, something like the old Billy would have thrown around. Then again, it’s not like Steve really knew Billy before.

And he’s only spoken to Billy a few times since summer—at the video store, mostly—since Billy got out of the hospital. It’s not enough to _know_ him.

Headlights sweep over the asphalt and the engine hums beneath the radio; Steve clears his throat. He glances sidelong at Billy, searching his brain for something, anything, to say. ‘You like frozen pizza?’ is what he settles on.

‘I prefer it cooked,’ Billy says, barely missing a beat.

It’s closer to what Steve has been expecting, and he snorts, despite himself. ‘I don’t know,’ he says, ‘I like the crunch.’

And that gets half a smile out of Billy as he turns his face toward Steve. It settles the spiky thing in Steve’s chest a little, makes warmth he can’t explain rise up behind it.

He breathes through the feeling, not looking at it too closely, and turns onto his street. Past the Ackermans’ and the wide stretches of empty lawns and then into his drive. It’s too quiet in the car without the hum of the engine and the radio, but Steve can’t bring himself to open the door and get out.

‘Well,’ he says, hands curled over the steering wheel, ‘this is my house.’

Leather creaks beneath denim as Billy shifts in his seat. ‘Thanks for clearing that up,’ he says, digging into his jacket and bringing out a battered pack of cigarettes, ‘I was worried we’d pulled into a stranger’s drive for a minute there.’

It’s another remark closer to the old Billy and it lulls the agitation in Steve a little more. He opens his door and says, ‘Nah,’ as he steps out, ‘not in the mood for breaking and entering tonight.’

Behind him, Billy huffs, boots clomping along the drive as he follows Steve up to the door. The scent of cigarette smoke comes with him, thick and teasing in the crisp night air. 

Steve pauses on the porch, swiping the cigarette from Billy and taking a long drag. Nicotine sings in his blood.

Billy’s lips quirk, and he takes the cigarette back, leaning against the wall. ‘We can’t smoke inside?’ He flicks the cigarette.

‘My mom doesn’t like the smell.’

Billy only hums.

They stand on the porch, smoking the cigarette between them until it dwindles. Billy offers it to Steve but he shakes his head. Watches as Billy takes the final drag, cherry glowing bright, before he expels the smoke in one long breath, and crushes the butt beneath his heel. He looks up at Steve, eyes dark, almost glittering in the dim light. ‘We going in, or what?’

‘Uh, yeah,’ Steve says, and turns to unlock the door.

A low whistle comes from behind Steve as he steps inside. 

‘Fancy setup, Harrington.’ Billy is standing by the door, brows raised. ‘Do I need to take my shoes off? Make sure I don’t get any of my peasant dirt on the palace floors?’

Steve rolls his eyes. Sure, their house is big, but it’s not _that_ big. ‘You can keep your shoes on.’ He moves through the house in the dark, Billy one step behind him. 

Light spills from under his dad’s office door, but no one calls out. His dad either doesn’t hear them, or he’s too busy, but it’s a relief, either way.

Having Billy over wouldn’t be an issue but Steve’s dad can be…nosey. He likes to quiz Steve’s friends. Like he needs to know who their parents are and what they do and what their plans are for the future. To decide if they’re good enough to associate with a Harrington, or to see how Steve sizes up against them, Steve can never tell.

But he doesn’t think it would go over well with Billy.

‘This way.’ He waves Billy toward the den at the back of the house. 

Warm light floods the room as he flips the switch by the door. He’s aware of Billy watching him as he moves over to the windows. The vertical blinds scrape the rails as Steve draws them; the pool lights aren’t on this time of year, so the sliding doors are black, reflecting the room. Steve’s gotten good at ignoring what’s on the other side.

Billy is looking around, eyeing the new couch and the old lamps, and then his gaze lands back on Steve. His tongue darts out. ‘You said something about pizza.’

‘Yeah.’ The awkwardness rising in Steve ebbs a little. ‘You can wait here, I’ll put it in the oven.’ He turns and heads to the kitchen, grateful for the distraction, for something to do that isn’t standing in silence with Billy.

But Billy follows, propping a hip against the counter, watching Steve as he moves around the kitchen. ‘I’m impressed you even know how to work an oven,’ he says, arms crossed over his chest. His eyes are half-lidded, dark and blank.

Irritation flickers in Steve, tingeing the lingering awkwardness. ‘Yeah, well, it’s complicated, but I manage.’ He tears open the pizza box, throws the strip of cardboard on the counter. ‘ _Some_ how.’

‘How very domestic. You’ll make someone a good wife, someday.’

Steve ignores Billy and puts the pizza on a tray, and shoves the tray into the oven. The box says to preheat the oven but whatever. It’ll be fine. He turns the oven on, sets the timer, then turns around. 

The way Billy is looking at him sticks in Steve’s throat. It’s always been like this. Like he’s sizing Steve up all the time, but Steve isn’t sure what for. He’d thought he’d understood, after their fight, but even when Billy stopped hounding him, he never stopped _looking_. With just the two of them in the kitchen, it sends a shiver down Steve’s spine.

‘You want a beer?’ Steve asks.

Billy nods.

The fridge creaks open, light spilling onto the floor; Steve takes out two cans, throws one to Billy. Billy goes to catch it one-handed, but he fumbles, and the can smacks onto the linoleum.

It rolls until it hits the opposite counter.

‘Fuck,’ Billy says, bending to pick it up.

‘I’ll get you another,’ Steve says, turning away. He feels embarrassed, somehow, but he’s not sure why. Maybe on Billy’s behalf. ‘That’ll fizz everywhere if you open it, now.’

‘No shit,’ Billy grinds out.

The cool air of the fridge is a relief as Steve grabs another can. He hands it to Billy, this time, noting the trembling in Billy’s hand as he passes it over.

‘Are you OK?’ he asks.

Billy scowls and yanks the can from Steve’s grasp. He pops the ring and chugs the beer, wiping over his mouth with the back of his hand. ‘I’m fine.’

‘OK.’ Steve sips his beer, licks his lips. He wishes he’d offered a quicker food—chips, or a sandwich—or that he’d insisted on driving Billy home. Not that Billy would have accepted it. Not the way he was, earlier. 

He wants to ask what was happening in the store but Billy is still scowling, all pale skin and dark circles under his eyes.

Steve can’t look at those eyes, right now, so he lets his gaze wander down Billy’s frame—his clothes sit a little loose on him, but he’s not as thin as he was after those weeks in the hospital. He’s already filled out, all lean muscle under tight denim.

If Steve didn’t know what Billy went through, he wouldn’t be able to tell. Billy just looks…tired. But good, a voice in the back of Steve’s mind supplies.

He swallows and lifts his eyes back to Billy’s face; Billy is still staring at him, one brow raised, the edge of his lip quirked. Heat floods Steve, tight in his throat, and he’s about to say something—anything—to distract them from this when the timer dings. He startles, pulse leaping.

‘That was quick,’ Billy says.

‘Guess I didn’t set the timer long enough.’ Steve turns to the oven, sets the timer for the right amount of time, and turns back to Billy. It takes less than five seconds but it’s enough for Steve to gather himself. ‘We can watch a movie while it cooks if you want?’

‘Sounds thrilling,’ Billy says, but he pushes away from the counter and follows Steve from the kitchen and back into the living room.

There’s a stack of videos on the glass-top coffee table; Steve hasn’t watched most of them, yet. ‘You can pick whatever you want.’

Billy moves over, picking the tapes up one by one. His nose screws up. ‘These all look old.’ He turns one over, scanning the back. ‘And weird.’

‘Uh, yeah.’ Steve rubs the back of his neck. ‘Robin’s trying to educate me, or something. Apparently I’m a, um…’ Shit. What was the word Robin used? ‘Palestine.’

Billy coughs and raises a brow. ‘She said you’re a Palestine?’ When Steve nods, Billy says, ‘OK,’ but it looks like he’s trying not to laugh.

Steve folds his arms over his stomach. ‘There are some normal movies at the bottom,’ he murmurs.

‘Robin’s the chick you work with,’ Billy says, setting Robin’s movies aside.

It’s not a question, but Steve says, ‘Yeah.’

‘This looks OK’—Billy picks up a tape, turns it over, throws it at Steve—‘at least it has baseball.’

The tape hits Steve’s chest, sharp corner digging in, but he catches it with one hand before it falls. He narrows his eyes at Billy and mutters, ‘Asshole,’ then looks at the video.

There’s a picture of wispy clouds in a blue sky, overlaid with a man in a brown hat, on the cover. ‘Oh, yeah, this looks cool.’ The scent of plastic hits Steve as he opens the case and, for a moment, he’s back in Family Video. He throws the cover aside. The TV turns on with a ping, the tape goes into the VCR with a clunk. ‘My mom wanted to go see it because she has a thing for, um…’

Before Steve can grab the cover he threw on the floor, read who’s in the movie, Billy supplies, ‘Robert Redford?’ from behind him. ‘Unless she’s into Glenn Close.’

Steve turns to find Billy smirking at him from where he’s sprawled on the couch, looking every bit like he hangs out at Steve’s all the time.

Maybe that wouldn’t be so bad.

Even with all the wisecracks.

‘She likes Robert Redford,’ Steve says, sitting next to Billy. The couch is soft and he sinks in, slumping down. He braces a hand on his knee, turns this way, then that, until there is a satisfying crack at the base of his spine. It feels so good. He lets out a low, pleased hum.

‘We watching the movie, or what?’ Billy says.

Steve fumbles with the remote, pressing play, as he says, ‘Uh, yeah, sorry.’

The silence, broken only by the whirring of the tape as he fast forwards the previews jangles on his nerves, so he says, ‘That movie with Barbra Streisand and Robert Redford is her favourite. I still know all the words to that stupid theme song.’ At Billy’s blank look, Steve says, ‘Anyway, she never saw this one in theatres, so I brought it home for her.’

‘Aww,’ Billy coos. ‘Sure you don’t want to wait and watch it with Mommy?’ He’s sneering, and Steve is pretty sure he’s only teasing, the way Billy does, but there’s something else beneath it.

It’s not something Steve wants to prod, whatever it is, so he only says, ‘She won’t mind,’ and presses rewind when he realises he’s gone past the beginning of the movie. He hits play and sets the remote on his thigh.

After a few moments, Billy says, ‘My dad likes _Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid_.’ It sounds like the words are pulled out of him. One by one. ‘I know that fucking theme song by heart.’

Steve raises a brow. ‘OK?’

‘Robert Redford’s in it, too.’ Billy crosses his arms over his stomach.

‘Oh. It’s a Western, right?’ At Billy’s nod, Steve says, ‘I’m not really into Westerns.’

‘Thought you’d dig them, being a country boy and all.’

‘I’m not— This is the Midwest. You’re the one from the _Wild_ West.’

‘That’s right. Forgot you’ve only got cows out here, not cowboys.’

‘Whatever.’ Steve rolls his eyes. His gaze flicks up, then down. ‘Wait, are you trying to tell me you think you’re a cowboy?’

Billy barks out a laugh, and then he mimes tipping a hat, saying, ‘Yessiree,’ with a wink.

A tingly feeling starts somewhere in Steve’s gut, spurred by the colliding thoughts of _cowboy_ and _Billy_. It’s not exactly unpleasant, but he ignores it. ‘You wish.’ The picture on the screen is frozen, zig-zagging lines waving through it. Steve hadn’t realised he’d hit pause. He settles back and hits play again, focussing on the movie.

He can see why his mom likes this guy, even if he’s probably older than Steve’s dad. Which…gross. But he’s got that sweep of blond hair and blue blue eyes and a strong, square jaw. Heat crawls up Steve’s neck, and he casts a sidelong glance at Billy.

Billy catches him looking and Steve turns his full attention back to the TV. Or tries to. 

It’s hard, though, because Billy is slumped beside him, legs spread so his knee keeps brushing Steve’s as he bounces his leg. The small touches, even through layers of denim, send sparks up Steve’s thigh. It’s annoying and Steve hugs his arms around his stomach, digging his fingers into his sides to have something else to concentrate on.

When the timer dings, Steve’s shoulders sag. ‘I’ll get the pizza,’ he murmurs. Billy doesn’t follow this time.

Steve takes his time cutting the pizza, and sliding it onto plates but if Billy notices he doesn’t say anything when Steve takes the plates and some napkins back into the living room.

‘It’s hot,’ he says, handing a plate to Billy.

‘Thanks, Mom,’ Billy says, but then he mutters a low, ‘Ow, fuck,’ and blows on his fingers.

A small smile tilts Steve’s lips as he settles onto the couch. 

The movie is fine, if kind of sappy, but Steve’s all too aware of Billy beside him. Of the brush of their arms, and the press of their thighs. Of Billy’s breaths and the small sounds he makes. It’s so… _annoying_. In the middle of one of the game scenes, Steve asks, ‘Who’s your team?’ 

Billy shifts, sliding further down into the couch. He doesn’t answer.

‘Hey, who’s your team?’ Steve tries again, nudging Billy with his elbow this time.

‘I heard you the first time.’

‘OK, you didn’t answer so—’

‘Do you actually watch movies or do you just talk through them?’

Steve blinks. The changes in Billy’s moods are dizzying. Exhausting. ‘Dude, I’ve barely said anything.’

‘Whatever.’ 

Steve shakes his head and crosses his arms over his stomach. He wonders if he can pretend to be too tired to finish the movie, or maybe ask Billy to leave. Except Billy’s bike is at Family Video and Steve would have to take him back and that would mean being stuck in the car with Billy and…fuck. It’s easier to pretend Billy isn’t here.

But Billy is jiggling his knee and it keeps brushing Steve’s and it’s driving him _crazy_. 

About halfway through Steve has had enough—he’s tired and frayed around the edges—and is about to tell Billy they’ll have to finish the movie some other night when Billy breaks the silence, voice low and rough:

‘The Dodgers.’

‘Huh?’

‘The Dodgers,’ Billy repeats, ‘they’re my team.’

‘Oh. Cool.’

Billy chews on his thumbnail, brow furrowed. He jerks his chin at Steve. ‘What’s yours?’

‘Thought you didn’t want to talk during the movie.’ 

‘Whatever,’ Billy says, ‘it’s kinda dumb.’ As he talks, his voice clears, and he pushes himself up. He waves a hand at the TV. ‘I mean, a magic bat? What a crock of shit.’

And Steve can’t disagree that it’s ridiculous, but at least a magic bat is nicer than a bat full of nails covered in monster blood.

‘So?’

‘Hm.’

‘Your team,’ Billy says.

‘Well,’ Steve says, eyes sliding to Billy, ‘I don’t know if I should say, what with you being in a pissy mood and all. Wound might still be too fresh.’ Wow, Harrington. Great choice of words.

But Billy seems more stuck on the first half as he says, ‘I’m not in a…’ He trails off, eyes widening. ‘Wait, wait.’ He turns toward Steve, jabbing a finger at him. ‘Do not tell me you’re a Cardinals fan.’ 

Steve hides a smile behind his can of beer.

Billy flops back, covering his face with his hands. ‘I can’t believe I’m eating pizza and watching a movie with a fucking Cardinals fan.’

‘God, you Dodgers’ fans are so sensitive.’ On the screen the crowd cheers. Steve smirks. ‘Such sore losers.’

‘Like you’d be any better if the Cardinals lost.’

‘Dude! We _did_ lose. The World fucking Series.’ It’s barely been a week and, fuck, it still stings.

That gets a smile from Billy—small but satisfied—and he says, ‘Oh, yeah, that was _rad_.’

Steve huffs. ‘I’m glad you found joy in our defeat.’

Billy’s smile widens into a grin, all white teeth, and pink tongue. He shakes his head and shoves the rest of his pizza in his mouth. ‘How come you go for the Cardinals?’ he says, around the mouthful. ‘Thought it’d be the Cubs or White Sox.’ He swallows. ‘Something closer to home.’

‘My grandpa was born in Missouri.’ 

‘And?’

‘He’s the one who got me into baseball. My dad likes it, but not like my grandpa. He took me to games when I was a kid.’ Memories flood Steve: sitting beside his grandpa in the stands, cheering until their voices were hoarse, popcorn and hot-dogs, and how big his grandpa had seemed when he was little. He smiles. ‘It was fun. We loved it.’

‘He still around?’

‘My grandpa?’ At Billy’s nod, Steve says, ‘Yeah. We don’t go to games as much these days, but we watched the World Series together. That was rough.’

‘Tell me about it.’ Billy runs a hand over his face. ‘We didn’t even talk about the World Series at home. Dad was in the shittiest mood after the Dodgers lost.’ He bites his nail. ‘I just avoided him. At least he hasn’t…’

The sentence dangles unfinished between them; it sits uneasily in Steve’s chest. ‘Hasn’t what?’

‘Nothing.’ Billy chugs some beer, crushes the can, and burps. ‘He used to take me to games, sometimes. Signed me up for Little League. He was really into it.’ 

An image of Billy on the school team—sliding into home, pitching fastballs—flashes in Steve’s mind. ‘You ever think of doing it professionally? You were good at school.’ As he talks, summer comes back to Steve, and how he doesn’t know exactly how bad Billy was hurt. Bad enough to need to stay in the hospital for weeks and Steve should shut up but he can’t and says, ‘You know, before…

‘Before what?’ There is ice in Billy’s voice, heat in his eyes. ‘Before I became a cripple, you mean?’

Steve’s stomach drops. He swallows. ‘You’re not a cripple, you ride a motorcycle.’

A laugh erupts out of Billy, from somewhere deep inside. It shouldn’t surprise Steve—Billy’s been blowing his expectations away all night—but it does. And even though he’s laughing _at_ Steve, it’s a relief. 

‘Holy shit, you’re…’ Billy snorts and shakes his head.

‘I’m what?’

‘Nothing.’ Billy breathes out. ‘I like baseball, but not enough to do it professionally, you know?’ He sits back, head lolling against the couch. He looks at Steve along the length of his nose. ‘What about you? You weren’t too bad. Thought you’d be off with a scholarship or something.’

Shame crawls up Steve’s throat, stings his ears. ‘I couldn’t even get into Tech.’ Never mind scholarships.

‘That’s bullshit.’

Steve bristles. ‘What?’

‘You were _good_.’

A different kind of warmth seeps in beneath the embarrassment and shame. ‘Was that an actual compliment, Hargrove?’ Steve asks.

‘I call it how I see it.’ Billy shrugs one shoulder. ‘I mean, your pitching could use some work, and you gotta learn how to plant your damn feet but’—he licks his lips—‘you were good.’

‘Thanks.’ Steve sucks his bottom lip between his teeth. ‘I think.’ He fiddles with the ring on his can of beer, worrying it until it breaks off. ‘I don’t think I’d want to do it professionally, either, though.’

‘Fair enough.’

A thought niggles at Steve. Not a new one. One that’s been circling the back of his mind, lately. He’s not sure where it came from, but he got this idea to talk to the coach at Hawkins High. See if maybe he needs an assistant. Not to get paid but just for something to do that isn’t helping customers with vague requests and rewinding tapes all day. Help coaching baseball or basketball or anything. 

It’s probably a stupid idea—Steve doesn’t even know if you need to go to college first—and he hasn’t told anyone. Not even Robin. But Billy…Billy might get it.

But then Billy says, ‘Surprised Daddy didn’t pay your way into Ivy League,’ and the thought recedes to the back of Steve’s mind.

‘Yeah, well’—Steve turns the can in his hand—‘my dad’s a douchebag.’

Billy grunts. He mutters something that sounds like ‘Join the club’ but doesn’t say anything else. The soft flickering light catches the scar on his forehead when he pushes his hair back, and one peeking out of his sleeve, cuff slipping up with the movement. 

They’re not big, but Steve knows they weren’t there before. He cuts his gaze away when Billy looks over at him. ‘You need another beer or anything?’

‘I’m good.’

‘OK.’ Something about their conversation has left Steve feeling wrong-footed, but he can’t figure why. He turns to the TV but the movie doesn’t grab him, not even the game scenes.

The last real game he watched before the World Series he’d watched alone. It was fine but it wasn’t as much fun as watching it with someone else. He glances at Billy. Hanging out with him tonight has been kind of cool. Fucking weird, but cool. It’s been ages since Steve has hung out with a guy his own age, ages since he’s hung out with anyone who wants to talk about things like baseball. Maybe…

‘Hey, uh,’ Steve says, ‘maybe next season we could watch a game together?’ He chews his lip. ‘I mean, my grandpa doesn’t always have time, my dad isn’t really into it, and Dustin…’ He spreads his hands.

‘I’m thrilled to be your fourth choice.’

‘That’s not—’ Steve frowns. ‘Whatever.’

‘It could be OK’—Billy shrugs—‘if I’m still around.’

‘What?’

‘I wanna get out of this shithole.’ Billy pulls at a thread in his jeans. It comes loose and he flicks it on the floor. ‘But if I’m still around, we could watch a game.’

‘Cool.’ Steve presses his lips together. ‘So long as it’s not the Cardinals vs the Dodgers, right?’

‘Right.’ 

A beat, a breath, and then Steve says, ‘And, hey, there’s always basketball until then.’ It’s been ages since Steve has had anyone to watch basketball with, either, but maybe this is too much. Makes Steve seem too eager. ‘If you want.’

The crooked grin Billy gives Steve when he says, ‘Yeah, guess so,’ makes Steve glad he asked.

When the credits roll, Billy stands, stretching his arms above his head. His shirt pulls tight over his chest, his stomach. Slips from the waistband of his jeans, revealing a patch of skin, a hint of hair.

Steve’s heart skips.

But then there’s a small groan and Billy drops his arms, wincing. He presses a hand to his side. ‘Shit.’

‘You OK?’ Steve asks.

‘Peachy,’ Billy says, waving Steve off, but there’s a rasp to his voice and his face is a touch paler.

If Steve didn’t want to break this…truce that’s settled between them, he’d push, because Billy doesn’t seem okay. But it’s been nice—mostly—and Billy seems looser than he did in the store. Steve doesn’t want to ruin that, so he stands and says, ‘I’ll drive you back.’

‘Trying to get rid of me already?’

‘I thought—’ Steve blinks, but he notes the way Billy’s lips twitch. ‘Yeah, you’ve overstayed your welcome.’ 

‘You’re kind of an asshole, Harrington,’ Billy says, but it sounds more like a compliment than an insult.

‘Thanks.’ Steve turns the TV off, a hush settling over the room. ‘Come on.’ He jerks his head toward the door and smiles when Billy laughs again.

The streets are empty this time of night, quiet and still. It’s the same in the car, but the silence somehow feels less awkward than it did before. And when the radio comes back on Billy scowls at the pop music, changing the station to something with screaming guitar and heavy drums.

Steve grins and drives a little faster, stomach swooping pleasantly when Billy grins back.

‘You should get that checked,’ Billy says, when Steve cuts the ignition, parked beside Billy’s motorcycle.

Steve glances over at him. ‘Get what checked?’

‘The rattle.’

‘Oh, yeah,’ Steve says, ‘I’ve been meaning to.’

Billy makes an annoyed sound. ‘Come by the garage and I’ll check it.’

‘Do I get a special rate?’

‘Yeah’—Billy zips up his leather jacket, looks over at Steve—‘twice as much as usual.’

Steve snorts. ‘Thanks.’

‘Don’t sweat it.’ Billy looks at Steve a moment, but if he wants to say anything else, he doesn’t. The door opens then slams shut, rattling the car, as he gets out and moves around to his bike. He swings one leg over, gripping the handlebars, but doesn’t start it.

Icy air gusts into the car when Steve winds his window down. He leans on the door but doesn’t say anything. Moonlight glints on Billy’s earring as he pushes his hair back, and Steve realises that he doesn’t style it the way he used to. It’s looser. Unruly. It suits him.

‘See you ‘round, huh?’ Steve says.

The bike starts with a deep rumble; Billy revs it once, twice, looking at Steve—‘Later, Harrington’—and then he tears down the road.

Steve watches Billy recede into the distance, and then he starts his car and drives home.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading! :) At this point, I’ll be updating once a fortnight! 
> 
> I think I’ve now used up my quota of scenes of Billy and Steve hanging out and watching movies :P Also, did I shamelessly insert my huge crush on Robert Redford into this fic via Mrs Harrington? Why yes, yes I did haha
> 
> On the subject of baseball:
> 
> All I knew about it previously was that there’s no crying in it ;D But I did a little research, asked some stuff on reddit. Long story short, I ended up choosing the Cardinals for Steve’s team because they had the cutest logo haha BUT then I read that the Cardinals beat the Dodgers in the National League Championship series in 1985 so I thought that kinda added an extra touch of rivalry/friction for Billy and Steve!
> 
> ETA: so I was browsing my downloaded fics and [found this fic](https://archiveofourown.org/works/7752352/chapters/17676244) I read back in August 2017 (it's Jonathan/Nancy/Steve OT3, so if that's not your jam, totally cool) and Steve goes for the St Louis Cardinals and it's almost certainly a coincidence but it may have also been lingering there in my subconscious and was one of the reasons it felt so right to have them be Steve's team! And I kinda felt like I should acknowledge that haha
> 
> I [have a moodboard on Tumblr if you’re into that](https://gothyringwald.tumblr.com/post/621577184003391488/late-night-feelings-chapter-one-of-eleven). And I’ve also started [a sort of research/~DVD extras post](https://gothyringwald.tumblr.com/post/621577820945235968/late-night-feelings-researchextras) so I don’t clog up the end notes (too late lol). It’s mostly for myself (I won’t organise my research if I don’t post it publicly) but if you’re at all interested, please feel free to take a look! Or you can just come say hi on tumblr, if you like. Or not! No pressure! Haha :D 
> 
> I [also have a playlist](https://open.spotify.com/playlist/17F53OPoe7IFHjndQT7blE?si=6LIm4mfVQ5aQpPo374DbLQ) that is subject to change haha
> 
> Up next chapter: motorcycle rides and midnight pancakes!


	2. TWO

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks again to LazyBaker/granpappy-winchester for beta-ing this chapter for me!! <3333
> 
> I think the tags cover the warnings for this chapter but there are discussions of nightmares and PTSD in this chapter. And I guess a brief allusion to/suggestion to misuse of prescription medication in a joke?

Wind screams in Billy’s ears, tangles in his hair, as he whips down the road. His bike rumbles between his thighs, vibrating up into his chest. It feels fucking _awesome_.

The bike is the only thing that clears Billy’s mind, these days. Music used to, but it doesn’t anymore. Even lifting doesn’t. It’s been months and the bike is the _only thing_ that doesn’t make Billy want to scream until his throat is raw. The first time he’d seen her, he’d gone to get another car, something to fix up to keep him occupied. But it was the bike that caught his eye and it was love at first sight.

Overhead, a fat moon peeks between silver clouds, shining down on the trees blurring past, on the road eaten up by the tires.

A car is parked by the side of the road, growing closer by the second, a shadowed figure sitting on the hood. Billy rides past—he’s not going to be anyone’s good Samaritan tonight—but the figure and the car are familiar and something catches in Billy’s chest. Makes him turn the bike around.

‘Fuck.’ He comes to a stop a little way up the road; he swings himself off the bike, boots landing on the asphalt with a thunk, and walks toward Steve.

Steve looks up, eyes narrowed, then out across the road. He’s leaning forward, hands hanging between his knees.

‘Car trouble?’ Billy says.

‘No,’ Steve says, breath misting in the air, ‘just taking in the view.’ He waves a careless hand, gesturing toward the open field, a line of trees.

‘However you get your kicks,’ Billy says. When Steve glances up, Billy holds up his hands and adds, ‘Hey, man, I’m not judging.’

Steve rolls his eyes and shakes his head. ‘What are you doing out here?’

‘Couldn’t sleep.’ Dreams of not being himself, of walking around like some kind of meat puppet, of doing fucked up things. Billy swallows. ‘Got hungry.’

Steve nods. In the moonlight, he looks pale, tired. ‘You going to the truck stop?’

‘Which one?’

‘No, The Truck Stop. That’s its name.’

‘Original,’ Billy says, and then, ‘No, Benny’s.’

‘You should go to the Truck Stop. They’ve got better pancakes.’

‘Maybe.’ Billy frowns. There’s something about Steve tonight that doesn’t sit right with him. The other night Steve was all buddy-buddy. All _Billy come and watch a movie with me, eat my pizza, drink my beer_. Tonight, he’s distant. Billy should turn around and leave him out here with his stupid car, but he says, ‘What are you doing out here? Aside from taking in the sights.’

Steve shrugs one shoulder, looking up. ‘Couldn’t sleep. Got hungry.’

‘What a coincidence.’ Billy shifts his weight. Silence falls between them and his blood simmers. The high from riding his bike is wearing off. ‘Well, I’m going. There’s a cherry pie with my name on it.’ He takes a step back, chewing on his thumbnail. Something flickers in his chest when Steve doesn’t say anything. Doesn’t even look at him.

Billy’s nostrils flare. He’s going to leave. Just turn around and leave. Fuck Harrington and whatever moody teen angst bullshit he’s pulling. But, for the second time, Billy stays. He nods at the car. ‘Want me to take a look?’

‘At what?’

‘The car.’ Billy’s jaw clenches but he forces it loose. He fixes a smirk on his lips. ‘Told you to bring it in so I could look at that rattle.’

‘I forgot.’

Billy huffs. ‘Just because it’s a rich boy car, doesn’t mean you shouldn’t take care of her.’

‘Whatever, man.’ Steve sighs. ‘You gonna take a look or not?’

 _Fuck_ this. ‘Nah,’ Billy says, ‘it’ll keep,’ and moves back over to his bike.

‘Hey, where are you going?’

‘The Truck Stop. Heard they have good pancakes.’

Steve looks at Billy, incredulous but…resigned.

Somewhere in the distance an owl hoots; Billy swings one leg over his bike, kicks out the stand. ‘You coming, or what?’

Steve raises his brows. His gaze slides down to the bike, and he sucks his lip between his teeth.

‘Unless you’re chicken…’

Steve looks up at Billy—too hard to read in the moonlight—and jumps off the hood of the car. He walks over, hands in his pockets, tongue sticking out the corner of his mouth. ‘Do I just get on?’

‘That’s the general idea.’

Steve puts a hand on the back of the seat, swings himself over, and settles in behind Billy.

‘You have to sit closer,’ Billy says. Sweat beads on his upper lip and the simmering in his blood is closer to boiling point. His heart thuds and he grips the handlebars tight enough to bend them.

Steve shifts forward until his thighs bracket Billy’s hips, strong and solid and _hot_.

‘Hold on tight.’ Billy starts the bike, hoping the rumble beneath him will make him forget Steve’s dick is somewhere near his ass. 

‘To what?’

Billy licks his lips and glances back at Steve. ‘You ever been on a bike before?’

There’s no fear or concern in Steve’s eyes as he shakes his head, and it sets Billy’s pulse racing.

Maybe Billy should tell Steve to hang onto the back—it’s riskier, sure, but with Steve, it feels safer than the alternative. That makes Billy think of things he shouldn’t want. Ever since summer, though, it’s been harder to fight those things—desires—so Billy turns back around and says, ‘Me.’

It’s been so long since anyone has touched him but he barely lets himself revel in Steve’s arms slipping around his waist, the solid warmth of Steve’s chest at his back, before he peels away, tearing up the road. 

It’s nothing like screaming down Hawkins’ backroads in the Camaro. This is a different thrill. And with Steve behind him, holding on tight, it’s even better.

Like this, Billy can pretend he can have the things he wants and that he’s not tainted and twisted up inside. That he’s good enough for—

Steve’s voice rises above Billy’s thoughts and the howling wind: ‘It’s just up ahead.’ He’s pointing with one hand, the other tightening around Billy.

A sign comes into view—‘The Truck Stop’ and ‘OPEN 24 HOURS’ in faded lettering above an arrow pointing to a squat building, walled with grimy windows. It’s only moments before they’re by the parking lot; the bike swerves, gravel churning under the tires, as Billy comes to a stop. He kicks out the stand, but he doesn’t get off, not yet. 

Steve’s arms slide from his waist, but he steadies himself with a hand on Billy’s shoulder as he gets off the bike. It’s a brief touch, a light touch, but it feels heavier than Steve’s arms around him as they rode. Billy sucks in a deep breath.

There’s a look in Steve’s eyes that makes Billy’s stomach go all tight when he finally hauls himself off the bike and turns to him. Steve is breathless, eyes shining. And with the adrenaline still coursing through Billy’s blood, everything feels all mixed up, but the look _can’t_ be what Billy wants it to be. He looks away and heads toward the door.

It’s stuffy inside, Billy’s face flushed from being battered by the wind, and he unzips his jacket. He likes the heat, though, even as it rises up around him, just this side of suffocating.

Steve moves past him—‘This way’—weaving between the mostly empty tables and settling in a booth by the window. 

There’s a set of initials carved into the wall on Billy’s side of the booth that catches his eye as he settles in. He looks around. The diner is dingy, rough around the edges, not somewhere he’d expect Steve to hang out. ‘Doesn’t seem like your kind of place, Harrington,’ he says.

‘The pancakes are good,’ is all Steve says, peering over the dogeared menu. Whatever mood he was in, earlier, seems to have passed. His eyes are brighter, everything about him easier. Lighter.

Billy grunts. He picks up a menu; the laminated coating is cracking, and it’s greasy from being touched by too many hands. 

The menu is filled with the standard stuff—burgers and pies and hash, but Billy doesn’t care what he eats. He’d only wanted to get out and it was cherry pie at Benny’s or a fifth of whisky from the dive bar that never checks IDs. If he believed in anything as stupid as fate, he’d say that’s what made him pick the cherry pie. But fate is bullshit.

A waitress with a drooping ponytail and bags under her eyes comes over to their table. She’s got a pencil in one hand, a pad in the other; there are stains on her white apron and piss-yellow dress.

‘What can I get you boys?’ she says.

‘I’ll have a stack of pancakes,’ Steve says, ‘and some coffee, thanks.’

The pencil scribbles across the pad; the waitress flicks her tired eyes in Billy’s direction.

‘Same for me,’ he says.

More scribbling, and then the waitress shuffles off. Billy watches as she moves behind the counter, sticks their order up. As his gaze pans across the room, a flash of dark curly hair piled on top of a girl’s head makes his heart skip. 

It’s not—

She’s not—

But from behind she looks like her, and Billy is frozen. The heat and the scent of grease and sugar are too much and Billy feels like he’s going to puke.

‘Billy?’ 

Vinyl creaks as Steve’s shifts; from the corner of Billy’s eye, he’s aware of Steve turning, maybe following Billy’s line of vision. His foot nudges Billy’s beneath the table as he moves and it brings Billy back.

‘Just…’ Billy’s heart pounds. ‘Thought I saw someone I knew.’

‘Oh.’

Billy swings his gaze back to Steve. ‘Old flame, you know,’ he says, forcing the words out, ‘didn’t want a scene.’ He winks.

‘Sure,’ Steve says, and it almost sounds like he believes Billy.

The concern in those huge eyes of his is more stifling than the heat. Billy shrugs his jacket off. ‘So,’ he says, kicking Steve under the table as he shifts, ‘what keeps Steve Harrington awake at night?’ 

‘Just a headache.’ Steve’s tongue darts out. He answers too quickly, too offhand. ‘I get them sometimes. Doctor said I’ve been hit in the head too many times.’ He glances up.

Something that might be guilt tugs at Billy’s ribs. He fixes his mouth into a grin. ‘Figured you had a thick enough skull it wouldn’t do much damage.’

It’s a joke. A mean one, sure, but a joke. The kind of thing Billy always dishes out and Steve usually takes.

But Steve doesn’t roll his eyes or laugh or even tell Billy to fuck off. He ducks his gaze, and says, ‘Yeah, well…’ but doesn’t finish the sentence.

‘Hey’—Billy throws a packet of sugar at Steve—‘I’ve still got some of the strong painkillers the quacks at the hospital gave me.’ He leans forward, hands flat on the table. ‘I could give you some. They can be a lot of fun.’ But they’re not, they just make Billy feel like he’s somewhere else. Someone else. He stopped taking them long before he was meant to.

Steve looks up at that, though, brow raised. He throws the sugar back at Billy and says, ‘I think I’ll stick to Tylenol,’ but it’s enough to ease the tension rising between them.

‘Suit yourself,’ Billy says, with a shrug. ‘Should’ve figured you’d be too much of a goody two shoes.’

‘That so?’ At Billy’s nod, Steve adds, ‘I’ll have you know I once stayed up way past midnight and drank some beer.’ He looks around, leans forward, crooks a finger at Billy. ‘I’ve even been known to smoke cigarettes.’ He sits back and spreads his hands.

A laugh startles out of Billy, from somewhere deep inside, somewhere real. He’s glimpsed this Steve before—the sarcastic smartass—but not like this. It’s…cool. ‘Well, watch out Hawkins,’ Billy says, ‘we’ve got a real bad boy on our hands here.’

Steve winks. ‘You’d better believe it.’

‘Oh, I do,’ Billy says, and realises he’s caught in some kind of staring contest with Steve. But it feels less like a competition and more like…Billy isn’t sure.

Two cups clatter onto the table and Billy cuts his gaze away. A hand holds out a steaming pot, the bitter scent of coffee filling the air. Billy looks up at the bored waitress, pouring their coffees without even looking. Like she’s done it so many times she doesn’t need to look to know how much to pour out. She does it silently, then slips away.

‘Thanks,’ Steve says, to her retreating back, then turns back to Billy. He chews on his lip. ‘So,’ he says, ‘how come you couldn’t sleep?’

Dreams. Dreams of not being himself, of walking around as some fucked up monster’s fucking meat puppet, of doing things he never—

Billy scratches his nose and props an arm on the back of the booth. ‘Life’s too short for sleeping,’ he says, but it comes out wrong. 

Steve’s brows raise, but if he was going to say anything else, it’s cut off by the waitress coming back and slinging two plates of pancakes on their table. 

‘Thanks,’ Steve says, again, smiling up at her.

She gives him a tired look and shuffles off to another table. 

‘These better be good, Harrington,’ Billy says, eyeing the stack in front of him. ‘I could be eating cherry pie at Benny’s.’ Not that Billy cares, but he doesn’t want Steve to think this is anything less than an inconvenience.

Steve smiles—‘They’re good, trust me’—and reaches for the maple syrup. He just about drowns his pancakes in it, then adds some more for good measure.

‘You gonna leave some for the rest of us?’

‘If you’re lucky,’ Steve says, but he nudges the maple syrup across the table until it hits the edge of Billy’s plate.

There’s a chip right where the rim of the plate touches the jug; Billy turns the plate around, presses his thumb to the rough edge. Presses until he can feel it. He glances up, notices Steve eyeing him, and snatches his thumb away.

The thick scent of maple syrup hits him as he pours some over his own pancakes. Cloying and saccharine. He licks his lips and stabs his fork into the stack, breaking off a chunk. ‘OK,’ he says, around a fluffy, crumbly mouthful, ‘these are pretty good.’ His stomach growls, like now that he’s eating it’s finally realised it’s empty. 

‘Told you,’ Steve says, biting into his own food.

Billy makes a noncommittal noise and keeps eating. He props one leg on the seat across from him, nudging Steve’s hip. 

A song is playing, some kind of soft-rock bullshit. It’s not loud enough that it would normally get on Billy’s nerves, but there aren’t a lot of other people inside, and instead of fading into the background, the song buzzes in his head, filling his ears.

There’s one of those table jukeboxes in their booth, so Billy leans forward, pancakes sitting half-eaten, and flips through the pages. It’s mostly country and pop and more soft-rock, but there are a few decent tunes. Some scrawled onto little slips of paper and shoved in, like they’ve been added later, replacing some other long-forgotten song. Billy digs into his pocket, but it’s empty.

‘You got a dime?’

Steve is mopping up the maple syrup with the last bite of his pancakes. ‘Hm?’

‘A dime,’ Billy repeats.

‘Uh, yeah.’ Steve sets his fork down and rests his weight on one hip, digging into his pocket. The handful of coins falls onto the table— _ping ping ping_ —and Steve pushes them around, finds a dime, and slides it across the table to Billy.

It falls into the jukebox with a soft clink; Billy punches the buttons, then sits back and waits. It shouldn’t be long.

‘What song did you pick?’ Steve asks over his coffee cup. 

‘You wouldn’t know it.’

‘Try me.’

Billy licks his lips, chasing the taste of sugar. He shakes his head. ‘Nah, it’s good music.’

‘Whatever.’

The song switches over, soft strains rising up, filling the air, until a raspy voice slices through the backing. Billy lets his eyes slide closed, draws in a deep breath, tilts his head back.

‘This your song?’

‘Mm-hm.’

‘I think I know it,’ Steve says, ‘it’s nice.’

‘Aerosmith doesn’t make _nice_ music.’ Billy opens his eyes, watches Steve down the length of his nose. 

‘Well, it sounds nice to me.’ Steve is bopping his head, drumming his fingers on the table. He pauses, looks up at Billy. ‘Doesn’t sound like your kind of music, though. Not angry enough.’

‘My music isn’t angry.’

Steve makes a disbelieving noise.

‘It’s _not_.’ Billy curls his hands over the table’s chrome edging. ‘It’s more than anger. It’s…’ He tries to think of a way to explain it to Steve but he _can’t_.

‘OK, you’re the expert,’ Steve says, and drinks some more coffee.

Billy holds back a snarl, but he lets it drop. There’s no way Steve would get it. And he’s not sure why that pisses him off so much. He lets out a long breath and gulps his own coffee.

It’s bitter and bracing. He drinks it all, casts around to catch the waitress’s eye. 

Now that they’ve finished eating there’s no reason to stay. And Steve is pissing him off with his— His—

He just doesn’t get it. Doesn’t get _Billy_. So Billy’s going to tell Steve that if he wants a ride back to his car, he’d better be ready to go. Because Billy is more than ready.

But the seconds pass, and the seconds turn into minutes, and Billy doesn’t say anything. Because the real kicker of it all is that he doesn’t _want_ to leave. He wants to stay here. With Steve. 

Fuck.

It makes no sense. Sure, he’s been drawn to Steve from day fucking one, circling him, trying to get under his skin however he can. But this…this is different than that.

And it should piss Billy off the most of all, but it _doesn’t_ and he can’t figure why.

‘You want a refill?’ Steve says.

‘Uh, yeah.’

Steve signals to the waitress and she comes over and refills their cups, without having to ask what they want.

Silence settles between them. Billy doesn’t feel like choosing another song, so he looks out the window. The glass is fogged by his breath and years of grime; outside the moon shines on the few cars in the parking lot and the endless stretch of road beyond it. Billy turns back, takes out his cigarettes and is about to light up when that flash of dark curls paralyses him again.

The girl who looks like— She’s walking past their table, on her way out, and she waves at Steve. Cheeks dimpling with a smile. She looks even less like Heather—fuck, Billy can barely stand to think the name—from the front but it’s enough to make the bottom of his stomach drop out.

Steve waves back, watches her walk out.

‘New girlfriend?’ Billy says. How can he sound so normal?

‘No’—Steve turns back to Billy—‘she’s a regular at the store.’ 

‘She’s cute.’

‘I guess.’

Billy grunts and finally lights the cigarette pinched in his fingers. It’s the first he’s had all night. He looks at Steve, who is looking back at him, but neither of them talk.

The thought of silence, right now, is unbearable. But Billy doesn’t want Steve to know he’s a freak who can’t even look at a girl with dark curly hair without _shaking_ —it’s bad enough Steve knows he can’t rent a video without freaking out—so instead of changing the subject entirely, he says, ‘You never told me why King Steve, with his big palace, is working at Family Video.’

Steve lifts his brows, then shakes his head. ‘My dad,’ is all he says.

‘Thanks for the explanation.’

‘He just…wants me to learn responsibility or some shit. I was pissed off at first, but it turns out it’s better than doing nothing.’ Steve’s fiddling with a packet of sugar, setting it on one edge on the table, running his fingers down, turning it over. And over. And over. ‘Actually, I was thinking…’

‘That’s dangerous.’

Hurt flashes across Steve’s face.

It sticks in Billy’s throat. He swallows. ‘What were you thinking?’

‘It’s stupid, you’ll laugh.’

‘Probably.’

‘Thanks.’ Steve pushes his sleeves up. It exposes the jut of his wrist and Billy is struck with the urge to press his fingers there. He forces himself to listen to Steve: ‘It’s just…you know how we were talking about baseball the other night?’ 

‘Yeah.’

‘Well. I’ve been thinking about going to see the coach at Hawkins High. Ask if he needs an assistant, or something.’ Steve’s tongue darts out. ‘Not for money, just to do…something. Baseball or basketball, whatever.’

‘You could coach Little League,’ Billy says, ‘you’re friends with plenty of babies.’

‘I knew you’d think it was dumb.’

‘You should do it.’ Billy takes the last drag of his cigarette, crushes it in the overflowing ashtray. ‘Talk to coach, I mean.’

Steve shrugs one shoulder, gaze ducked. ‘I mean, I don’t even know if you need to go to college or anything.’

‘Talk to him. If you want something you should go for it.’ Billy picks up another coin, twirls it on its edge. It flashes in the dim light.

‘Is that what you’re doing?’

The coin spins out, clattering onto the table. Billy’s pulse leaps. ‘With what?’

‘The garage,’ Steve says. ‘Working there so you can move away like you said.’

Billy lets out a low breath. He’d forgotten he told Steve that. ‘Not really. I guess…maybe I don’t know what I want.’ It’s the first time Billy’s admitted it to himself, let alone said it out loud, and it surprises him. 

What is it about Steve Harrington that makes Billy want to spill his guts?

‘That’s familiar,’ Steve says. His head is in one hand, and he’s slumped over the table, looking at Billy from under the dark sweep of his lashes.

‘I gotta piss,’ Billy says, and then he’s sliding out of the booth, and stumbling in the direction of the bathroom. 

When he gets back their cups are full of coffee again, and Steve is sitting up straight, hands cradling his cup.

It looks like he wants to say something, but there are a few moments of silence before he says, ‘It’s not just the headaches,’ looking up at Billy. ‘Keeping me up, I mean.’

‘Yeah?’ Billy arches a brow. ‘Girl trouble?’

Steve snorts. ‘I wish.’ He rips a packet of sugar open, dumps it in his coffee. He’s not looking at Billy when he says, ‘Weird dreams. Shitty dreams.’ He glances up. ‘You know?’

Dreams of not being himself, of walking around with a fucking monster controlling him, of doing terrible, fucked up things.

White-hot rage fills Billy. How fucking _dare_ Steve Harrington, of all people, take this from him. What can be so bad for _him_ that he has bad dreams? Sure, he knows Steve has fought monsters—Max filled in some of the gaps for him—but Billy was…

Billy _was_.

Billy looks at Steve, and his breath catches. He knows the look in Steve’s eyes. It’s a look he’s seen in the mirror plenty of times. Something in Billy unspools, and the rage slides away, but, still, he says, ‘Didn’t think bad dreams would make it all the way up to you in your ivory tower.’

Something flashes in Steve’s eyes that Billy’s never seen before. Or only glimpsed. A fire that licks at Billy. 

‘Screw you. You have no idea…’ Steve runs a hand over his face and sighs. The fire gutters. ‘Fuck, sorry, maybe you do.’

And Billy does. God, does he know. But he didn’t think Steve could know, too. That Steve could be plagued by nightmares, that Steve would rather drive all the way out to some shitty diner for pancakes than stay in bed. ‘Yeah,’ Billy says, ‘I’ve got my fair share of shitty dreams.’

‘Guess it’d be worse for you, huh? I mean, with what happened—’

Billy clenches his hands and he grits his teeth. He does _not_ want to talk about this. Not about what happened. Not about the dreams. Not about how sometimes it’s worse when he’s awake.

‘What do you mean?’

‘What?’

‘That it’s worse when you’re awake.’

Fuck. ‘Nothing.’

‘Billy—’

‘Nothing, Harrington, drop it.’ Billy pulls out his wallet, throws some crumpled bills on the table because he is done. 

Steve looks from the cash, up to Billy. He sucks his bottom lip between his teeth. ‘Time to go, huh?’

‘I—’ Billy should say yes. He wants to say yes. Because fuck Steve with his bad dreams, and his worried eyes, and his fucking pity. But Billy only shrugs and says, ‘Figured you’d have a curfew and need to get back home before Mommy wonders where you are.’

‘No,’ Steve says, ‘no curfew.’ He’s not smiling but there’s a look in his eyes like he might see right through Billy. Before Billy can say or do something to wipe the look away, Steve says, ‘You know, they do pretty good cherry pie here.’

‘Do they?’

‘Not as good as the pie at Benny’s. But pretty good.’

‘I’ll be the judge of that, Harrington,’ Billy says, sliding the cash back into his wallet, and tucking his wallet away.

Steve smiles.

The cherry pie is good. Billy doesn’t tell Steve, but he’s pretty sure Steve knows if the way his smile lingers is anything to go by.

As they eat, they talk, and as they talk, a strange sensation creeps into Billy’s mind. It’s not the clarity he gets from riding his bike. It’s something else, something he either can’t, or doesn’t want to, put a name to. Whatever it is, it loosens something in Billy that’s usually coiled tight and in the middle of Steve talking about the game the other night, he says, ‘Sometimes…’ and then catches himself. 

‘Sometimes what?’

 _Sometimes I think I’m going crazy_ , Billy thinks.

_Sometimes I want—_

_Sometimes I wish I was—_

‘Sometimes it’s worse when I’m awake.’ Billy said that already, but he doesn’t know how else to start. He hasn’t told anyone else this, not even that fucking head shrinker he was sent to once. When he realised he didn’t have to be there, he told the guy to fuck off and never went back.

But Steve is watching him. Waiting. And maybe they’re in public but this ratty diner with its splitting vinyl booth and greasy table is more comfortable than wood panelling and leather chairs. It’s not easy but Billy says, ‘You know when you have a shitty dream, and it feels real, but even if it’s _about_ something real, it’s never one hundred per cent right. Like, something’s always off?’

Steve nods.

‘But when I’m awake…’ Billy doesn’t know how to explain this. Or why he wants to. But there’s something about Steve…he’s not looking at Billy like he knows what’s going on in Billy’s head just because he has a stupid degree over his desk. Billy sucks in a breath. ‘When I’m awake, sometimes I see something, or hear something, and then like that’—he snaps his fingers—‘it’s happening again. Like it’s for real.’

‘What’s happening again?’

‘ _Everything_.’ Billy’s voice cracks. ‘I—’ 

Fuck. Fuck. He’s said too much. He wishes he could snatch the words back and swallow them down, down, down. He squares his jaw and meets Steve’s eyes. ‘Bet nothing like that ever happened to you, huh?’

It’s thrown down like a challenge, like it’s a competition of who has it worse. But part of Billy wants Steve to say _yes, it’s not just you, you’re not a freak_.

Steve shakes his head. ‘No, but…it’s dumb, but I freaked out the first time I got in an elevator, after, you know…’

‘After what?’

Steve looks around, lowers his voice, leans across the table. ‘After the _Russian_ elevator.’

It takes a moment, but the penny drops. Summer. Starcourt. The Russians. Billy doesn’t know most of what happened—Max gave him the big picture but spared the details, which was A-OK with him—only that there were Russians under the mall and they’re the reason he—

‘Right,’ Billy says, and tries to keep the uncertainty out of his voice.

‘Anyway, I went shopping with Mom in Indianapolis and when we got in the elevator I just…’ Steve trails off, shaking his head. ‘Freaked out. Couldn’t even handle one floor before I had to get out.’ Colour has risen to his cheeks and he looks down. ‘But that’s not…that’s not as bad, I guess. Not the same thing.’

It’s not. But, where Steve talking about his bad dreams had filled Billy with anger, this makes Billy feel _seen_. It’s not the same, but maybe it’s not so different. ‘Still sucks, though.’

‘Yeah.’ 

The look in Steve’s eyes is too much. Too heavy. Billy looks around, looks anywhere but at Steve.

There’s a guy slumped in his chair, a table over from their booth. His mouth hangs open and his soft snores lift above the music and the sounds of the kitchen. Billy grabs a napkin from the dispenser, balls it up, takes aim.

‘What are you doing?’ Steve says.

‘Bet you five bucks I can get this in his mouth.’

‘Whose?’

Billy juts his chin at the guy still snoring obliviously.

‘Don’t,’ Steve says, but when Billy glances over he can tell Steve is trying not to laugh.

‘C’mon, you ‘fraid of losing five measly bucks?’

‘No,’ Steve says, and he _is_ laughing now as he reaches across the table, grabbing at the napkin. His hand is warm as it closes around Billy’s, thumb pressing into the heel of his palm.

Billy’s pulse leaps and heat rushes him. He jerks his hand out of Steve’s grasp and throws the napkin. It bounces off the guy’s nose, and he snuffles. Billy reaches for another napkin. It goes clean in the guy’s mouth, this time.

‘Oh my god.’ Steve doubles over the table, laughs gurgling out of him, shoulders shaking.

‘Who threw that?’ the guy says and Billy can’t help it, he laughs too.

He slides down in the booth, head thrown back, laughing harder than he ever has in his life. It’s not even that funny but he can’t stop. He’s breathless, tears filling the corners of his eyes, and his side aches. But it feels so damn good.

‘I can’t believe you did that,’ Steve says, through gasps of laughter.

‘Told you I could.’

Steve pushes himself up, but he’s still half-leaning over the table. ‘Didn’t doubt it.’ He’s staring at Billy, eyes glittering, but then the guy shoots them a suspicious glare and they settle back into their sides of the booth, wearing matching grins.

Time passes in a haze of refills, talking, dimes in the jukebox. Refills, talking, sharing cigarettes. Refills, talking, a sense of calm Billy has rarely felt. They talk and eat and smoke until the yellow light of the diner’s fluorescents is met with the golden glow of sunrise.

It fills Steve’s eyes as he turns to the grimy window. ‘Shit,’ he says, ‘didn’t realise it was so late.’ He frowns. ‘Or early.’

‘That a problem?’

Steve turns back. ‘Not really.’

Billy chews on his thumbnail. If his dad hasn’t gone to work, yet, it might be a problem for him, but since summer it’s been…different at home. Maybe Billy will go straight to the garage, though. Just in case. ‘Cool,’ he says.

‘Should probably head home, though.’

‘Yeah.’

Steve presses his lips together. He taps his fingers on the table and looks out the window. ‘Or maybe we could get another refill, first.’ He looks back to Billy. ‘You know, for the road.’

There’s enough caffeine buzzing in Billy’s bloodstream to keep him awake for at least a week. He doesn’t need another cup of coffee, and he’s pretty sure Steve doesn’t either. But he doesn’t say this. 

Instead, he signals the waitress, eyes on Steve and says, ‘Yeah, OK. One for the road.’

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading :) schedule still once a fortnight at the same time - will make a note if it changes :)
> 
> I’ve got [a new moodboard for this chapter](https://gothyringwald.tumblr.com/post/622847329133789184/late-night-feelings-chapter-two-of-eleven), because I’m extra like that haha and I [also updated the research post on Tumblr](https://gothyringwald.tumblr.com/post/621577820945235968/late-night-feelings-researchextras) :) 
> 
> The song that Billy plays on the jukebox is ‘Dream On’ by Aerosmith - you can listen to it on my playlist for the fic [here on Spotify](https://open.spotify.com/playlist/17F53OPoe7IFHjndQT7blE?si=MqEqGLSGQLi4KCympsE8qA) :)
> 
> Next up: walking in the rain and hot chocolate


	3. THREE

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks again to LazyBaker/granpappy-winchester for beta’ing this chapter for me :)
> 
> Also, you may have noticed the rating change, but it's not because of this chapter - I just revised my plan and, yeah, it'll be relevant later! Sorry!

‘Steven.’

Steve turns, straightening the collar of his jacket. His mom is standing at the foot of the stairs, one hand curled over the railing. The tennis bracelet peeking from beneath her sweater sleeve winks in the low light.

‘Are you going out?’ she says, brow furrowing.

A slow curl of guilt winds through Steve’s ribs at the tone of her voice. It always does that to him. ‘Yeah,’ he says, ‘I’m meeting up with a friend.’

‘Oh.’ That one syllable is loaded with so much disappointment that Steve’s chest constricts with it. His mom tries a smile. ‘I thought we could watch TV together. Your father won’t watch _Murder, She Wrote_ with me, and it’s more fun with company.’

‘I’m not really a fan, either.’

‘We can watch that show you like.’

‘ _MacGyver_?’ Steve tugs on his sweater sleeves, bunched up beneath his jacket. ‘You hate _MacGyver_.’

‘But I like spending time with you.’ She moves over to Steve, looking up at him. She runs a gentle hand over his hair and sighs. ‘Where did my little boy go? You look more like your father every day.’

‘Mom.’ Steve ducks away from her touch, brows knitting. He glances at the clock on the hall stand. ‘My friend will be here soon. Can’t we do something together, tomorrow?’

‘Of course,’ she says, tightly.

The silence and the purse of her lips speak more than anything she might say. Steve bites his lip. This is why he’d called Billy, earlier, asked if he wanted to hang out tonight. After his all-nighter at the diner, his mom’s been clingy, fussing over him in a way she hasn’t since he was a child. 

No, that’s not true. It started back in summer, when Steve came home black and blue, yet again, and it hasn’t let up since. Maybe she’s always been like this, but where it used to ebb and flow, it’s now more on than off.

‘We can watch the Monday night movie together,’ Steve says.

‘That sounds nice, sweetheart.’

‘What’s wrong?’ 

‘Nothing.’

‘ _Mom_.’

She spreads her hands. ‘I just wished you’d told me you were going out.’

‘I was going to.’

‘Like you did the other night?’ She arches a brow and, oh, here it comes. ‘I was up all night, sick with worry, imagining all sorts of things. Do you know what it’s like—’

‘You going out?’ His dad pauses as he rounds the corner, heading for the stairs.

Great. Now Steve’s going to get it from both of them. ‘Yes,’ he says, crossing his arms over his stomach.

‘Well, don’t go too hard on the car. Don’t want it breaking down again.’

Irritation sparks in Steve’s chest. At least his mom is worried about _him_. His dad only cares about the car. ‘It’s fine, now. A friend looked at it. Like I told you.’

‘Oh, well, if a friend looked at it, I’m sure it’s fine.’

‘A _mechanic_ friend.’ Steve grits his teeth. The hall feels too small, the whole house feels too small, even with its high ceilings and open rooms.

‘John, don’t you think it’s too late to go out?’

‘It’s only’—Steve’s dad looks at his watch—‘eight. As long as he’s not late for work. He’s an adult, Veronica.’

‘I _know_ that,’ his mom says, ‘but—’

His dad cuts her off, squeezing her shoulders and placing a kiss to the side of her head. ‘I only came through to grab my briefcase from upstairs, not get caught in a pointless argument. I’ve got work to do, you two can sort this out,’ he says, and then he’s taking the stairs two at a time.

A loaded silence falls between Steve and his mom; she turns back to him. ‘Can’t you and your friend do something here? I’ll make you cookies and hot chocolate.’

The thought of Billy sitting down and eating cookies Steve’s mom made is almost amusing, and if Steve weren’t so annoyed, he might laugh. But his mom keeps doing this, and it’s suffocating. ‘I don’t see what the big deal is,’ he says, ‘I won’t be out late. Promise.’

‘The big deal is that it would be nice to know when you’re going out, so I don’t worry when you’re not home. You don’t know what it’s like, to see you hurt.’ She reaches for Steve, then stops herself. Her eyes glitter. ‘We used to be so close, you used to tell me everything…I don’t know what happened.’

An uneasy whirl of agitation and regret coils in Steve’s stomach. ‘I talk to you,’ he says, too light and offhand. There are some things he can’t tell his mom, that he can never tell her. And some things she wouldn’t understand. ‘We’ll hang out tomorrow–’

The rumble of an engine cuts Steve off, breaking through the tension inside. He curses under his breath and turns to the door. He’d hoped Billy would be late and that his mom wouldn’t see, or hear, the bike.

‘Is that a motorcycle?’ His mom frowns, moving around Steve to open the front door, cold air washing into the room.

The bike is at the foot of the drive, gleaming in the moonlight. Billy sits astride, clad in leather and denim, looking like a rockstar.

‘Oh, Steven, I hope this isn’t your friend,’ his mom says, looking back at Steve. 

‘Uh, yeah, that’s him.’

A deep, shuddering breath. ‘Please don’t tell me you’re planning on going somewhere on that.’ She points one perfectly manicured finger toward the bike.

‘I’ve already been on it.’

‘Steven.’ She turns to him, eyes wide. ‘It’s dangerous!’

Fuck, if she only knew about the dangerous things in Steve’s life. The motorcycle is nothing compared to some of them. She’d probably make them move to fucking Canada if she knew. ‘Well, it’s not the most dangerous thing I’ve done. You don’t know everything I do.’

‘I would if you’d talk to me.’

And Steve can’t help it, the words rise up, and before he can stop them, he snaps, ‘You never used to care,’ instantly regretting it.

‘Of course I did.’ His mom looks stricken, and the small satisfaction Steve had felt melts away, leaving only a sick feeling. She takes a step toward him. ‘I know I…maybe I haven’t always been there these past few years, but I thought you needed the room. Your father—’ She shakes her head. ‘I’m sorry, baby, but I still—’

‘It’s fine, Mom, I was…I didn’t mean it.’ It’s not true, and they both know it, but it’s the best cover Steve has. He leans over and presses a quick, guilty kiss to the side of his mom’s face. ‘I’ll see you later.’

‘I—’ She blinks a couple of times, schools her face into a stiff smile, and says, ‘Don’t stay out late. And be careful.’

‘I will.’ Steve walks down the drive, not looking back at the house. Guilt sits heavily in his gut, but it lightens with each step he takes toward Billy. His heart races and the swoop in his stomach is more pleasant than bad, now. 

‘Hey,’ he says.

‘Hey.’ Billy’s still straddling the bike, hands curled over the handlebars; the silver ring he always wears glints in the moonlight. He glances past Steve. ‘That your mom?’

Steve looks back to where his mom is watching them from the doorway. She gives a sad little wave and, when Steve returns it, finally shuts the door. ‘Yeah,’ Steve says. 

‘Think she’d want to go for a ride?’ Billy winks.

‘Yeah, no, probably not.’

‘Pity.’ Billy takes a pack of cigarettes from his jacket, sticks one in his mouth. The flame of his Zippo flares bright, catching the end of the cigarette. He inhales, then blows the smoke at Steve. ‘How about you?’

‘What about me?’

‘You wanna go for another ride,’ Billy says, stroking a hand along the fuel tank.

Everything in Steve is screaming ‘YES!’ at the thought of being wrapped around Billy again. He still has no idea how he didn’t get a hard-on the other night, pressed tight against Billy’s ass in those damn jeans. And even without how good it felt to be close to Billy, it had been fun. Steve hasn’t felt like that in ages.

It would piss his mom off, and probably his dad, too. He can’t deny the appeal in that. But his mom had looked so sad, and if Steve gets on the bike with Billy he could easily stay out all night again and end up in another argument. It might be worth it, but he’s not sure, so, he says, ‘How about a walk?’

‘Whatever,’ Billy says. ‘Where to?’

Steve sinks his hands into his jacket pockets. There’s a scrunched-up candy wrapper in one; it crinkles between his fingers. ‘I don’t know.’

A breeze blows past, catching the loose strands of Billy’s hair; Billy brushes them away. ‘You got a ball?’

‘Yeah,’ Steve says, pushing his hips forward, ‘I’ve got two,’ and he winks.

The tilt of Billy’s lips is at least a little impressed, and his gaze flicks down. ‘I’m sure you play with ‘em plenty,’ he says, ‘but I was thinking more along the lines of a basketball.’

‘Uh, yeah, I’ve got one somewhere. Why?’

‘I haven’t seen one in a while and wanted to refresh my memory.’ Billy rolls his eyes, then he jerks his thumb over his shoulder. ‘Passed a court on my way. We could take a walk down there.’

‘Sure,’ Steve says, ‘I’ll see if I can find the ball.’ He hesitates as he turns back toward the house, then goes around the side; he doesn’t want to run into his mom. 

It’s dark and quiet as Steve moves along the side of the house, sneakers sinking into the long grass; he lets himself into the garage, flipping the light switch by the door. The basketball is wedged between his dad’s golf clubs and some tennis rackets that have seen better days. Steve doesn’t remember the last time he used the ball, but it’s firm between his palms and bounces just fine.

He spins it on his finger as he walks back outside, pleased to find he can still do it, but Billy swipes it from him when he’s close enough.

‘Hey,’ Steve says, but Billy is already striding off, all assured like this is his neighbourhood, not Steve’s, leaving Steve scrambling to catch up.

Their footsteps echo in the empty street, their breaths mist in the air. It’s just this side of freezing, but Steve loves fall in the nighttime. Maybe it’s weird to still love cold nights and moonlit walks, after the nightmares that were winter ’83 and _last_ fall, but Steve is mostly glad this hasn’t been taken from him.

He sucks in a deep breath, relishing the sting of icy air in his lungs. It warms when Billy shoots him an odd look, and Steve clears his throat. ‘What were you doing when I called?’ he asks.

‘Jerking off.’

Heat rushes Steve and he chokes. ‘Thanks for sharing.’

Billy grins over his shoulder. ‘Nah, I was listening to music.’ _Thwack, thwack, thwack_. Billy dribbles the ball, nimbly passing it through his feet, catching it and spinning it on his finger. ‘And what about King Steve?’ He turns, walking backwards. ‘Didn’t he have anything better to do?’ _Thwack_ , spin, _thwack_. ‘Not that there’s anything better than hanging out with me.’

‘Stop calling me King Steve.’

Billy mock-pouts at him, then says, ‘What’s that line about the head that wears the crown?’ At Steve’s blank look, Billy waves a hand, and adds, ‘You know, about it being heavy.’

‘Are you calling me dumb?’

‘No, that would sound like “You’re dumb.” Which you’re not.’ Billy says it so casually, Steve almost misses it. But it’s hanging there, between them: Billy doesn’t think Steve is dumb and Steve doesn’t know what to do with that. _Thwack, thwack, thwack_ , goes the ball, in time with Steve’s pulse. Billy turns back around. ‘So, what were you going to do if I wasn’t free.’

‘Watch TV with my mom, I guess,’ Steve says, because he probably would have caved if he didn’t have other plans.

‘Well, if you wanna go back and watch _Murder, She Wrote_ with Mommy, I’ll understand.’

‘I’m good.’

‘You sure?’ Billy looks Steve up and down. ‘Bet you’ve got a hard-on for Jessica Fletcher.’

‘Oh, man, that’s gross.’

‘All that tweed do it for you, huh?’

‘You’re disgusting,’ Steve says, but he feels lighter, now. He narrows his eyes. ‘Hey, how come you know so much about the show, anyway?’ He snaps his fingers. ‘You watch it!’

Billy snorts. ‘No.’

‘You _do_! You’re the one with the hots for her.’

‘Oh, yeah,’ Billy says, ‘grandmas totally do it for me.’ 

‘You need help.’

Billy’s face shutters; he throws the ball at Steve. Hard.

The impact stings against Steve’s palms; he frowns at Billy ahead of him. He jogs the few paces until they’re in step and nudges Billy with his shoulder. ‘Hey, I was only joking,’ he says. ‘I think you’re…’ _Cool_. He settles on a shrug.

‘Wow,’ Billy says, ‘what a compliment.’

‘I just meant…I like hanging out with you.’

Something in Billy shifts, and he arches a brow, lips quirking. ‘Of course you do. I’m fucking awesome.’

‘And modest.’

‘When you’re as cool as I am, Harrington, modesty is overrated.’ Billy grins as he swipes the ball from Steve then runs off with it.

They run the rest of the way to the court, shooting the ball between them, the wind whistling in Steve’s ears, the cold air stinging his face. It’s not as exhilarating as being on the motorcycle, but it’s close.

The court comes into view at the end of a quiet street; the lines on the asphalt are faded and the net on the hoop is barely hanging on. Clouds gather above, dark and heavy, obscuring the moon and stars, and the air is thick with the promise of a storm.

Billy shrugs his jacket off, throwing it on the ground, and makes a motion with his hands. ‘Gimme the ball.’

Steve props the ball on his hip. ‘No.’

‘Gimme the damn ball, Harrington.’

‘Come and get it,’ Steve says, moving onto the court. He knows Billy could easily take the ball from him—he always could—but that’s exactly what Steve wants.

When they’d played at school, Billy was an asshole, and Steve was too distracted to give the game his all. Tonight, though, he’s focused, determined. An hour ago, he hadn’t even thought about playing basketball with Billy again, but now, the idea thrills through him.

It’s been ages since Steve’s played, but it comes back to him like he never stopped, muscle memory taking over as he dribbles the ball, dodges and blocks Billy. Baseball was always Steve’s game, but he was a decent basketball player.

Billy, though, Billy is good and he plays hard, even when he’s playing for fun.

They’ve barely been playing for twenty minutes and Steve’s breathless, sweat sucking his clothes to his skin. Billy is riding him every bit as hard as he did at school, but Steve revels in it, now. In the competition singing in his blood and in the closeness of Billy, even as Billy knocks into him. Nearly sends Steve sprawling.

‘Finally learned to plant your feet, huh?’ Billy says, licking his lips.

Steve wipes over his forehead, panting. ‘Maybe you’re not as tough as you used to be.’

The moon shines down on the court and wind rustles the trees; in one swift move, Billy takes the ball from Steve, turns to the hoop, jumps and shoots. It’s a clean shot. _Swish_. 

But as Billy lands, there’s something off. If Steve weren’t watching him so closely, figuring out how he plays, he might have missed the wince. But he sees it: Billy’s in pain.

Steve chews on his lip. ‘Are you OK?’

‘Yeah.’ Billy retrieves the ball, favouring his right side. ‘Why wouldn’t I be?’

Steve hesitates a moment, then says, ‘Because I’m kicking your ass.’

‘ _You’re_ kicking _my_ ass?’ Billy raises his brows. ‘You’re deluded. All that hairspray must’ve pickled your brains.’

‘You can talk! You’ve probably used enough hairspray in your life to fuel a rocket.’

‘It’s all natural, baby.’ Billy winks, giving a little shake of his head. ‘So, we gonna play ball, or are we gonna stand here talking about our hair like a couple of chicks?’

A chill wind whistles past and there is the distant rumble of thunder. ‘I was thinking we could head back.’ Steve hugs his arms around his stomach. ‘It’s pretty cold.’

‘Don’t be a wuss.’ Billy points a finger at Steve. ‘Anyway, you’re the one who suggested going for a walk in the first place.’

‘And now I’m suggesting another walk. Back to my house.’

‘I’m not done,’ Billy says, turning away, ‘but feel free to go back without me.’

‘C’mon, man—’

A resounding boom of thunder cuts Steve off and moments later the sky opens. Freezing rain hammers down, soaking Steve right through. Icy needles all over his skin.

‘Shit.’ Steve pushes his hair out of his face, blinking against the downpour. ’Now can we call it a night?’

Billy is clutching the ball; his hair is plastered to his forehead and he’s shivering. ‘What? Can’t stand a little rain.’

‘Billy.’

Another crack of thunder; Billy flinches. His hands tighten on the ball, and he shrugs one shoulder. ‘Whatever, don’t want the king catching a cold, right?’

‘ _Stop_ calling me that.’

Billy licks his lips and throws the ball at Steve. ‘Race you back,’ he says, then grabs his jacket and runs off.

It doesn’t take Steve long to catch up; he’s pretty sure Billy’s still in pain, and it’s slowing him down. There’s an oddness to his gait giving him away. Steve grabs Billy’s elbow. ‘This way’s quicker,’ he says, and leads Billy through the woods that back onto his yard.

They’re soaking wet and breathless by the time they reach the house. Steve’s hands ache from the cold and from clutching the basketball as he ran. The basketball splashes against the ground as Steve throws it, not looking where it goes; he slides open the door, ushering Billy inside.

Water drips from their hair and clothes, forming puddles at their feet. The storm is muted, inside, the room otherwise hushed. It’s only now that Steve realises Billy hasn’t said a word since he challenged Steve to race back. 

Their conversation at the diner comes back to Steve: Billy’s confession of being plagued by nightmares, and how sometimes it’s worse when he’s awake. Steve wonders if anything about tonight could make the summer return to Billy. If that’s why he’s so quiet. Maybe the cold rain is too much like ice baths, or maybe the thunder is enough. Steve bites his lip.

‘Are you OK?’ The words come out broken into pieces by Steve’s chattering teeth, but Billy must hear him because he gives a small nod. He’s staring at Steve through the curtain of his wet hair, hands fisted by his sides. He looks so much younger, somehow. Steve presses his lips together. ‘We should take our shoes off,’ he says, and kicks off his sneakers.

Billy bends to pull his boots off, but his breath catches. ‘Fuck.’

‘Here, lean on me,’ Steve says, without thinking. He waits for Billy to tell him he doesn’t need any help, but, instead, he braces a hand on Steve’s shoulder, pulling off one boot, then the other. They land on the floor with a wet thud.

Outside, lightning splits the sky, and Steve is certain he can feel electricity skittering along his skin. Billy is no longer leaning on him, but he’s still standing close. Breath warm on Steve’s chilled skin. His eyes are half-lidded, darker than the storm. The way he’s looking at Steve…

‘Steven, is that you?’ His mom’s voice cuts through, brings reality crashing down. ‘I’m glad you’re back, it looks like it’s going to be a bad— Steven! You’re soaked.’

‘Mom.’ Steve’s heart thuds and he stumbles away from Billy, whirling around. ‘We got caught in the rain.’

Steve’s mom frowns, peering past Steve, to where Billy stands quietly. ‘Oh, you brought your friend back.’ She runs a hand over her hair.

‘Yeah, this is Billy,’ Steve says, gesturing to Billy. ‘Billy, this is—’

‘Introductions can wait, baby. You two go dry off and I’ll make some hot chocolate.’

Guilt swishes in Steve’s gut. He was a dick to his mom earlier, and she’s still being nice to him. ‘You don’t have to.’

Something flickers over her face. ‘Of course not, you don’t need me—’

‘No,’ Steve says, tongue thick, ‘hot chocolate will be nice. Thank you.’

A small smile and then his mom sweeps away.

A sense of unease rises within Steve, the collision of two worlds now that Billy and his mom have been in the same room. He shakes it off and turns to Billy. ‘Let’s go. You can borrow something from me until your clothes dry.’

For a moment, it seems like Billy will protest, but his shoulders sag and he waves a hand, saying, ‘Lead on,’ voice low and hoarse.

It’s quiet as Steve shows Billy to his room; he doesn’t look back, but he can feel Billy’s presence behind him, tingling along the back of his neck, down his spine. 

‘You can change in here,’ Steve says, opening his door. It’s warm in the house, but shivers wrack his body and his wet clothes sit uncomfortably, heavy and constricting. 

There’s a tightness in his chest, too, that he can’t explain.

‘I need to piss’—Billy turns on the spot, looking over Steve’s room, face impassive—‘I’ll change in the bathroom.’ 

‘Oh, sure, you can use mine.’

‘You’ve got your own bathroom?’ Billy’s got one brow raised as he completes his 360, looking back to Steve.

‘En suite.’ Steve nods at the door on the far side of his room.

‘Fucking rich boy.’

‘Shut up.’ The weirdness in Steve’s chest eases at Billy’s quip. ‘Go get changed and stop dripping all over my carpet.’

‘Changed into what?’

‘Oh.’ Steve presses his lips together and turns away. He digs through his dresser, pulling out a pair of sweats and reaching for a plain ringer tee. But a flash of red and black on white catches his eye. He smirks and balls the shirt and pants together, then throws them at Billy.

‘You’re fucking kidding,’ Billy says, holding the shirt away from himself, pinched between his fingers.

The little red bird on the St Louis Cardinals’ logo stares back at Steve from beneath its jaunty hat, a twinkle in its eye. Steve shrugs and crosses his arms over his stomach. ‘Feel free to keep your wet shirt on.’

‘You’re a real asshole, Harrington,’ Billy says, but there’s a smile beneath his scorn.

‘So I’ve been told.’

Billy rolls his eyes, then turns and disappears into the bathroom.

The towel Steve had used after his morning shower is still crumpled on his bed; it’s dry enough and doesn’t smell too funky so he scrubs it over his hair, then throws it aside. He peels off his jacket and shirt—they go in the general direction of his desk chair—and pulls more clothes out of his dresser. A white shirt and a green sweater, tangled up with a red sweatshirt.

Steve glances over at the bathroom. He’d only given Billy a t-shirt…

‘I thought you might need something warmer,’ he says, knocking twice, then poking his head inside.

The bathroom light is brighter than the light in the bedroom, and it washes Billy out, casts strange shadows on his face, highlights the contrast of sharp and soft in his features. A red scar twists over the flat planes of Billy’s stomach, disappearing into the waistband of his jeans. Billy yanks his shirt down. ‘Didn’t take you for a peeping tom, Harrington.’

‘Don’t flatter yourself,’ Steve says, but his mouth has gone dry. He holds up the sweatshirt, shaking it in Billy’s direction.

Billy stomps over and snatches it from him. He glares at Steve, nostrils flared, and slams the door in his face.

It’s not like Steve had meant to intrude, or whatever, but he didn’t _think_. Billy’s never been shy about his body, before, but Steve still feels like he’s done something wrong.

A shiver runs through him and he rubs a hand over his bicep. He’s still chilled to the bone, so he changes into dry clothes, then makes a half-hearted attempt at tidying his room while he waits. The towel goes into the hamper by the door, and he spreads his wet clothes over the top of it. He throws out a chip packet and a can of pop, then pauses by his bedside table.

There’s a scrap of paper sitting by the phone there; scrawling numbers written in blotchy black pen are just visible beneath a smudge of grease. It’s been on the table since Billy gave it to Steve when Steve took his car into the garage. Told Steve if he needed any other work done, Billy would do it cheaper, but don’t tell the boss.

Steve doesn’t throw it out, but he tucks it away, not wanting Billy to see it, though he’s not sure why.

The bathroom door swings open. ‘I left my clothes in there,’ Billy says.

‘That’s cool…’ Something in Steve does a slow loop the loop, and his pulse skips a beat. He’d never considered the possibility of Billy wearing his clothes and it’s—

It’s not like he’s never shared clothes with friends, before. But Billy in his red sweatshirt feels less like Tommy H borrowing a shirt after a party, and more like Nancy…

‘We should go.’

Billy raises a brow.

‘Downstairs.’ Steve shifts his weight. ‘For hot chocolate. If you want.’

‘Whatever,’ Billy says, but he follows Steve out of the room, back down the stairs. ‘I can’t believe your mom is making hot chocolate. It’s so _Happy Days_.’

‘Shut up.’

‘Think the Fonz will be over later?’

‘Oh my god.’

Two mugs sit on the kitchen table, steam rising. They’re both plain brown and Steve’s stomach sinks. His mom usually makes hot chocolate in the mug his grandma brought back from Disney World. The one with his name on it. Part of him is relieved to avoid the ribbing Billy would inevitably give him, but if she’s not using that mug then she must still be upset.

The scent of chocolate is thick in the air, mingling with the tang of wine. There’s an open bottle of Steve’s mom’s favourite red on the counter, sitting beside a half-full glass. Steve slides into a chair, sitting heavily; Billy sits across from him, quiet and frowning.

‘Oh,’ Steve says, hand curling around his mug, ‘no marshmallows.’ He sounds pathetic, like a little kid, but his mom _always_ puts marshmallows in his hot chocolate. The plain mug was bad enough, but no marshmallows? It twists in his chest.

His mom pauses by the table. ‘I didn’t know if you’d want any.’

‘Yeah, I mean, if it’s OK?’

‘Of course.’ His mom moves to the pantry, comes back with a packet of marshmallows. She places two in Steve’s hot chocolate, with a small smile, then turns to Billy. ‘Would you like some… Sorry, I didn’t catch your name.’

‘Billy,’ Steve says, when Billy remains silent.

‘Would you like some marshmallows, Billy?’

There’s a strange look on Billy’s face. He blinks a couple of times, then shakes his head.

Steve’s mom frowns but it gives way to a baffled smile when Billy eventually says, ‘No, thanks. I’m good.’

‘OK,’ she says, ‘I’ll leave them here just in case,’ and places a packet of marshmallows on the table. She flicks a glance between Steve and Billy. ‘Are you boys warm enough?’

‘Yes, ma’am,’ Billy says.

Steve shifts in his chair. Half an hour ago he was freezing, but now, with Billy’s personality change, and his mom’s concern, and the guilt still roiling in his gut, the warmth of the kitchen is stifling. ‘I’m warm enough,’ he says.

His mom pushes a hand through his hair. ‘Your hair’s still damp, baby.’ She curls a lock around her finger and sighs. ‘You know, I wish you’d let me make an appointment to get your hair cut _properly_. All this hair hides that handsome face.’

‘Mom, _don’t_.’ Steve’s tone is sharper than he’d meant it to be, but he can’t believe she’s still treating him like a child, and that she’s doing it in front of Billy only makes it worse.

His mom’s hand hovers in the air, slowly curling closed. She turns away, picks up her glass of wine, and takes a sip. ‘Am I embarrassing you, darling?’

‘No, I—’

‘Well, it’s a mother’s job, isn’t it?’ Her tone is too light, the same tones she uses when Steve’s dad stays late at the office. ‘We only do it because we worry, all mothers do.’ She looks at Billy. ‘I bet your mom is the same.’

Through it all, Billy has been sitting silently, watching them from under the dark sweep of his lashes. But at the question, something passes over his face that makes Steve’s chest squeeze tight. It’s gone before Steve can correct his mom and Billy says, ‘Exactly the same.’ He winks and adds, ‘But you make better hot chocolate, Mrs Harrington.’ 

‘You’re very sweet.’ She hovers for a moment, then says, ‘I’ll leave you boys to it. There’s more cocoa on the stove if you want it.’ She swipes the bottle of wine from the counter, the glass in her other hand, and turns to Billy. ‘It was nice to meet you, Billy.’

‘You too, Mrs Harrington.’

Heels clack over the linoleum and the dizzying scent of perfume wafts past; his mom bends to press a kiss to Steve’s hair, so gentle he barely feels it, and then she sweeps out of the room. Steve curls his hands around his mug, gaze dipped. For some reason, he doesn’t want to look at Billy.

‘You know, I never pegged you for a momma’s boy, Harrington.’

‘What?’ Steve glances up, irritation flaring behind his ribs. ‘No, I’m not.’

There’s a look on Billy’s face, the one he gets when he’s about to taunt Steve, but it fades and he lets out a long breath. ‘I just…your mom’s nice.’

‘Yeah.’ Steve huffs. ‘Sometimes she’s too nice.’

Billy raises his brows. 

‘She’s been…over-protective, lately.’ Steve turns the mug in his hands. ‘Since summer, really. I mean, she completely freaked when I came home beat up _again_ , and I guess I get it. But…I just want some space.’

‘You seem close, though.’

‘Yeah, I guess.’ Steve’s never thought about it, but Billy’s right. They are close, they always have been. Closer than Steve is to his dad, at least. ‘What about your mom?’

Billy’s brow furrows. ‘What about her?’

‘Where is she?’ Fuck. Did Max say Billy’s parents are divorced, or that his mom is—

‘California.’

Steve exhales. ‘Do you—’

‘Do I what?’

 _Talk to her, see her, miss her_. Steve has no idea what he’d do if his mom lived so far away. He wants space, but that much would kill him. He settles on, ‘Get to see her?’

‘Sometimes.’ Billy chews on his lip. ‘Hey, you got anything stronger than hot chocolate?’

‘Uh, yeah…in the other room. I’ll get it.’ Steve pushes away from the table and goes out to the wet bar in the living room for a bottle of whiskey. Not his dad’s top-shelf. The cheaper stuff he doesn’t mark.

He brings it back to the kitchen and unscrews the cap, pouring some into Billy’s mug, then some into his own. He sits down, leaves the bottle between them.

The line of Billy’s jaw is white, and he’s looking somewhere past Steve, playing with the pendant he always wears. ‘It’s been a while since…’ He swallows. ‘She came to see me, in the hospital, but it was…it wasn’t until I was nearly ready to leave.’

Silence falls, heavier than the rain drilling the house. It doesn’t make sense to Steve, Billy’s mom taking so long to visit. His mom would be there all day, every day, if anything ever happened to him. He figured any mom would. ‘How come she took so long?’

Billy’s eyes flash. ‘She’s busy. She has a life, a job, a new—’ His nostrils flare. ‘She— She’s _busy_.’ He gulps his hot chocolate, reaches for the whiskey, tops the mug up.

‘Yeah, of course,’ Steve says, stomach turning. He can’t tell if Billy is angry at Steve for asking, or at his mom for not coming sooner.

‘And she went out of her way,’ Billy adds, fiddling with the necklace again. ‘She was going to New York and she changed her plans so she could have a stopover in Indiana, just to see me.’

Steve nods. ‘That was nice.’ He feels like a dick. For asking Billy about his mom, for having a mom who makes him hot chocolate, and saying he wanted space from her when Billy has barely seen his. For being pissed at his mom for being _worried_ about him. The urge to run to her and hug her strikes him in a way it hasn’t since he was a kid. He’s going to buy her some flowers, tomorrow.

‘I mean, it would’ve been cool if she could’ve stayed longer,’ Billy says, more candid than usual. ‘It’s been ages… I miss—’ He scrubs a hand over his face and sniffs. His eyes are glassy, his lashes damp. ‘Fuck, it’s stupid. I’m too old to care.’

‘Hey, you’re talking to a momma’s boy, here,’ Steve says, trying to lighten the mood, see if he can get Billy to smile.

But Billy only grunts. His head is bowed over his mug, his shoulders are hunched tight.

Silence washes over them, and Steve has no idea what else to say. It feels like the bottom of his stomach has dropped out. He reaches for the marshmallows, pops one in his mouth as an excuse for not talking. It’s a tasteless blob of mush on his tongue, but as the moments pass he eats another, and then another, just for something to do.

‘Hey,’ Billy says, voice wet, ‘quit hogging the marshmallows.’

Steve blinks. He wasn’t expecting Billy to be the first one to break the silence. ‘Thought you didn’t want any.’

‘I didn’t want them in my hot chocolate,’ Billy says, ‘but I didn’t say I wouldn’t eat any. So hand ‘em over.’

The tension coiling in Steve’s gut unspools at Billy’s demand, and his next breath is deep and easy. ‘OK’—the packet crinkles as he reaches inside and takes out a marshmallow—‘open up.’ The marshmallow sails across the table and hits Billy’s nose, then falls to the floor.

‘What the fuck, Harrington?’ Billy’s nose scrunches up, and he reaches to retrieve the fallen marshmallow then pitches it back at Steve. ‘This how you treat all your guests?’

Steve pops the marshmallow in his mouth—it was barely on the floor twenty seconds—and takes out another. ‘You’re meant to catch it,’ he says. 

‘That so?’

‘Yeah,’ Steve says, ‘so, come on.’

This time, Billy catches the marshmallow between his teeth, dodging to the side when Steve’s shot goes wide. He smacks his lips, and says, ‘You can do better than that, Harrington.’ 

The next marshmallow goes clean in his mouth. ‘That better?’ Steve asks.

Billy grins at Steve, baring the mess of half-chewed pink and white goo and nods. He reaches for the packet but Steve stops him, hand on top of Billy’s. Billy tugs but Steve’s hold stays firm. ‘What gives?’

‘If we’ve got enough left, we could make s'mores,’ Steve says. ‘I’m pretty sure we’ve got graham crackers and Mom always has a stash of chocolate.’

‘S’mores, really?’ Billy snorts. ‘How old are you?’

Heat rises to Steve’s face but he shrugs a shoulder and says, ‘You’re never too old for s'mores.’

‘Mm, guess not.’ Billy smiles, a small thing. ‘My mom loved s'mores.’ He sobers, looking off to the side. His hand is still underneath Steve’s, but he draws it away, the bumps of his knuckles catching beneath Steve’s fingers. ‘I really miss her.’ Billy plays with his necklace, looks back at Steve.

‘Did you— Were you close? Before?’

Billy nods and shrugs at the same time. ‘Yeah, I guess, when I was a kid. I used to tell her everything back then.’ The words spill out of him, like he’s been holding them in for a long time: ‘But when she came to see me…I didn’t even know what to say. I spent so long wanting to talk to her and then…I couldn’t. Fuck.’ He runs a hand over his face, looks up at Steve. ‘Why do I keep telling you this shit?’

Steve shrugs. ‘Maybe I’ve got a friendly face.’

‘Maybe.’ Billy holds Steve’s gaze, the air around them charged and crackling. He leans back in the chair, draws in a breath. ‘What about you?’

‘What about me?’

‘You said you’re close to your mom,’ Billy says. ‘You tell her everything?’

‘I used to.’ And Steve did. He’d babble at her for ages, every day after school, about which teachers he did or didn’t like, or something funny Tommy H did, and his mom would always be there to listen. As he got older, it slowly stopped. His mom was still there but it was different. ‘Maybe it’s part of growing up, you know. You stop spilling your guts to your mom about everything.’ _Even if she wishes you would_. ‘I mean, there are some things I can’t tell her. But you know that.’

Billy is still looking at him, gaze steady and piercing, seeing right through Steve. ‘You want to though, don’t you?’

‘Yeah,’ Steve says, breath catching, ‘I do.’

Billy hums. ‘Me too.’ 

The fridge rattles, the clock ticks, rain lashes the window. They sit there, staring at each other across the divide of the table, the silence between them almost comfortable, for immeasurable moments. 

And then another marshmallow hits Steve in the face. ‘Hey!’ He throws it back. Billy lets it fall.

Billy opens his mouth, like he wants to say something, then he closes it. He purses his lips, shakes his head, and says, ‘You’d better not tell anyone I said any of this shit, Harrington. I’ve got a rep to protect, you know.’

‘Cross my heart,’ Steve says, making an ‘X’ over his chest. ‘I’ll take it to the grave.’

‘Good.’ Billy swallows thickly and drains his mug. ‘You said something about s'mores?’

‘Yeah,’ Steve says, smiling, ‘come on.’ He gets the graham crackers and raids his mom’s stash of Hershey bars, then he and Billy make s’mores over the open flame of the stove. 

It’s not the same as making them over a fire, outside, with the stars above. But there’s something…intimate in making them with Billy as they share whiskey and the rest of the hot chocolate, laughing and cursing as they try not to burn the food or themselves.

The chocolate and marshmallows melt together perfectly, the crackers crunching just right against them. ‘Good?’ Steve asks around a mouthful, sucking crumbs from his fingers.

Billy looks at Steve from beneath the dark sweep of his lashes and says, ‘Yeah, good,’ voice low and rough.

Steve’s heart beats hard against his ribs. He smiles and says, ‘Good,’ revelling in the warmth of huddling close to Billy while the storm rages outside.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading! :) I’m really happy people seem to be enjoying this so far! 
> 
> I REALLY struggled with this chapter but I was determined to stick to my fortnightly schedule! And I made it!
> 
> Here's [another moodboard for this chapter](https://gothyringwald.tumblr.com/post/624114181358206976/late-night-feelings-chapter-three-of-eleven) :)
> 
> Anyway, I’ll be [updating the research post](https://gothyringwald.tumblr.com/post/621577820945235968/late-night-feelings-researchextras) with some notes but a little TL;DR on one of them here: by pure, sheer coincidence, the Monday night movie Steve offers to watch with his mum would be _An Early Frost_ (because of the date I chose for when the first chapter happens), which I feel would be an intensely uncomfortable movie for them to watch together… But it did inspire me to just rip the bandaid off and finally watch it! 
> 
> Also I realised as I was re-reading this one final time that I think I drew some subconscious inspiration from lymricks’ in waves (with the basketball and Billy wearing one of Steve’s sweaters - I know they’re not uncommon but yeah) so I’ll take this opportunity to say if by any chance you’ve not read that one, definitely seek it out!


	4. FOUR

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks again to LazyBaker/granpappy-winchester for beta’ing this chapter for me <33333

Hop, hop, _splat_. Billy clenches his fist around the joystick. Hop, _splat_. Hop, hop, hop, _splat_. The fucking frog gets it, game over. Billy throws the joystick to the other side of the couch. It bounces off a cushion, falls to the floor.

 _Frogger_ is a dumb game, anyway, and he wouldn’t have lost if he weren’t wondering where the hell Steve is. He was meant to be here half an hour ago. Billy could be lifting, building himself up again,but he didn’t think he’d have time. He would have, though, because Steve is late.

Billy reaches for the can of beer beside the couch and drains it. It’s warm and there’s not enough left to lull him, so he grabs the pack of Marlboros sitting by the overflowing ashtray and taps one out. He lights it, inhales, and tips his head back.

He blows out three smoke rings. They rise, spreading out, until they’re only vague wisps. He blows three more and closes his eyes. Focusses on the nicotine settling in his blood, and not the irritation beneath it.

He should never have asked Steve over in the first place. After the video store and the diner and the fucking hot chocolate he’d thought maybe they could be friends if nothing else. It’s something he’s reluctant to admit, even to himself, because Billy doesn’t do _friends_. He does hangers-on and followers, not friends.

But Steve, fuck, Billy just wants to be around him, no matter what. It’s pathetic. And it still doesn’t mean he should have invited Steve over, when he could be enjoying the weekend home, alone, and not waiting and _wanting_ —

A car pulls up outside; the engine cuts.

It’s familiar, the rumble as recognisable as the rhythm of Billy’s favourite songs. His pulse leaps, but he doesn’t move. Not at the sound of the car door opening and closing, or footsteps drumming up the path, or the porch creaking under someone’s weight.

He stays sitting when there’s a knock at the door and another, and even when Steve calls out.

It’s only about a minute that Billy stays sitting on the couch, smoking the dwindling cigarette, but it feels like longer. He reaches over and crushes the cigarette on the pile of butts in the ashtray, then saunters over to the front door.

Cold air rushes in as Billy swings the door open.

Steve is on the other side, hand poised like he’s about to knock again. He smiles at Billy through the screen door, runs his hand through his hair. ‘Hey,’ he says, ‘thought you might’ve been out, or asleep, or something.’

Billy shakes his head.

The lingering dusk light catches in Steve’s hair, sucks the colour from his skin, leaving him washed out. But he still looks— No. Steve bounces on his toes, lips quirking. ‘Are you going to let me in?’

Billy shrugs one shoulder, opening the door and stepping aside to let Steve past.

‘Sorry I’m late,’ Steve says.

Billy shuts the door and crosses his arms. ‘Didn’t notice.’

‘Oh, well…’ Steve turns to look at him. ‘I got caught up talking to coach. You know, about…’ He mimes swinging a baseball bat. ‘Helping out.’

‘Cool.’

A furrow appears between Steve’s brows. He sweeps his gaze around the living room and Billy is struck with the realisation it’s the first time Steve has been here. Billy’s never been embarrassed about his house, and he still isn’t, but after hanging out at Steve’s it’s hard not to be aware of how small it is.

‘See you started without me.’ Steve nods at the beer cans.

‘Yeah, got sick of waiting,’ Billy says, without thinking.

Steve’s lip ticks up. ‘Thought you didn’t notice I was late.’

‘Whatever,’ Billy says, and then, ‘Want a beer?’

‘If you’re offering.’

‘Kitchen’s back there,’ Billy says, jerking a thumb behind him, ‘beer’s in the fridge.’

Steve huffs, arms hugged around his stomach. ‘Seriously? When you were my guest, I made you pizza _and_ hot chocolate—’

‘Your mom made the hot chocolate.’

‘The least you could do is bring me a beer.’

‘You want a blowjob with that?’Shit. Maybe Billy shouldn’t have started with the beers so early. No, no, it’s fine. He’s made jokes like this before, it’s _fine_ , no matter that he wishes he could offer it for real. Maybe he could…

Steve blinks. His gaze flicks to Billy’s mouth, the faintest tinge of pink in his cheeks. ‘Uh, I’m good with beer.’ He sucks his bottom lip between his teeth.

‘Right, wait here,’ Billy says, and heads into the kitchen. Arousal simmers beneath his skin and it would be easy to pretend that it’s because he hasn’t got laid since—

But it’s more than that, Billy’s done denying that it’s not, heck, he doesn’t even _want_ to deny it. But it still doesn’t mean they can…or that Steve wants to… He throws the fridge open, grabs two beers, and heads back, jaw squared in determination to ignore the swoop of his stomach when he sees Steve.

Steve is standing by the television, turning an Atari game box over in his hands. He looks up at Billy, waggling the box. ‘Didn’t think you’d be into video games.’

‘I’m not.’ Billy snatches the box away and thrusts a can of beer at Steve. ‘It’s Max’s.’

Beer fizzes as Steve pops the ring on his can, takes a sip. ‘Aren’t you alone this weekend?’

‘Yeah.’

‘Then if it’s Max’s, why’s the game all set up?’ Steve gestures to where the Atari is plugged into the television. The cable snakes across the living room floor, connected to the fallen joystick by the couch. ‘And the TV’s on. And the game is still—’

‘Fine, Columbo, I was playing earlier. I got bored!’ Billy chugs his beer. ‘That OK with you?’

Steve gives a little shrug, brows raised. ‘I was only going to ask if you had another’—he makes a motion like moving a joystick—‘doohickey, so we could play together.’

‘They all come with two,’ Billy says, offhand, then Steve’s words sink in.‘Wait, _you_ want to play video games?’

Another shrug. ‘It’d be different.’

Billy looks at Steve. It’s been a while since he’s been able to kick Steve’s ass thoroughly, and even if it would be more satisfying to beat him at basketball or something physical, he can’t deny the appeal in this. So, he says, ‘Yeah, OK. We can play _Space Invaders_ ,’ and goes over to change the cartridge. The other joystick is under the cabinet and Billy has to get on his hands and knees to drag it out. He blows the dust bunnies off and plugs it in.

Steve glances away when Billy straightens up.

‘Here you go,’ Billy says, shoving the joystick at Steve.

They settle on the couch side by side, knees touching. Billy fights the urge to move away, presses his knee harder against Steve’s, instead, until it almost hurts. ‘Prepare to have your ass kicked, Harrington.’

Steve snorts.

The alien army marches across the screen, Billy jerks the joystick left, then right, shooting at them. When the command ship flies over, he aims for it, but Steve gets there first. The next time it comes along, he nudges Steve’s elbow, but Steve only nudges him back. Harder.

Steve gets the command ship again, his score crawls higher and higher, and then it’s game over, Steve wins.

Billy clenches his jaw and swallows. ‘Best two out of three,’ he says, and starts the game again.

‘Fuck,’ he says, mashing the button, ‘how are you good at this?’

Steve shoots the command ship, and his score goes up, soaring above Billy’s. ‘Huh?’

‘You said you’d never played.’ Billy dodges a laser.

‘No, I didn’t.’

‘Yes, you did.’ The aliens march faster, in time with the thudding of Billy’s pulse. ‘You said it would be different.’

‘That doesn’t mean I haven’t—’ _Pew, pew, pew._ The aliens’ last line of defence is decimated. Steve pumps his fist. ‘Yes! Victory!’

Billy throws the joystick down. ‘This is stupid.’ He’s breathing hard, scowling at the television.

‘Aw, don’t be like that,’ Steve says, nudging Billy with his shoulder. There’s a pause, and then, ‘Hey, wait, does that mean you let me play thinking I had no idea what I was doing?’ He clucks his tongue. ‘Not very sporting.’

‘Shut up.’ Billy picks up the joystick. ‘OK, best three out of five.’

Steve laughs beside him and says, ‘Yeah, OK.’

‘I don’t know how you’re doing it,’ Billy says, losing for the _third time in a row_ , ‘but you’re cheating.’

‘How can I cheat?’

‘I don’t know, but you are!’ Billy pushes off the couch and yanks the cord out of the television. The TV slides forward on the cabinet, but only an inch or two; it doesn’t fall. ‘And I’m sick of playing this stupid game, anyway.’

‘Jesus Christ, it’s just a game, Hargrove.’ Steve’s brows are raised and his eyes are wide. ‘Don’t be such a sore loser.’

‘And don’t be a shitty winner!’

‘What?’

‘Sitting there grinning at me’—Billy waves a hand—‘looking all…’ _Pretty, gorgeous, hot, sexy_. Shit. Billy scrubs a hand over his face.

‘Looking all what?’

‘I need a beer.’ Billy storms into the kitchen, braces himself with hands curled over the sink. It’s just a game. It’s just a game. It doesn’t matter that he lost, even if he lost against Steve. Only it _does_ matter because Billy doesn’t lose. Losing is for—

Footsteps creak over the floorboards, a warmth settles at Billy’s side. ‘Are you OK?’ Steve has his arms crossed over his stomach, standing close to Billy.

The tap drips, water drumming against the sink.‘Peachy,’ Billy grinds out.

‘OK, I was just wondering because you threw a tantrum about a video game so…’

 _Drip, drip, drip._ Billy wheels around. ‘I did not throw a tantrum.’

Steve shrugs. ‘If you say so.’ The warm light of the kitchen brims in his eyes, bringing out a hint of green Billy’s never noticed before.

‘One more game.’

‘What?’

‘One more game, and I’ll show you I’m not a sore loser.’ _Drip_ — Billy tightens the tap, then turns to point a finger at Steve. ‘Because I’m not going to lose this time.’

‘OK, I’ll play, but on one condition.’

‘What condition?’

‘We play together.’

‘Come on—’

‘We play together, as a team’—Steve stares Billy down—‘or I’m not playing.’

Billy tilts his chin up. ‘You scared of breaking your winning streak?’

‘No. And I like friendly competition, but I’m not going to watch you throw another…whatever you want to call it.’

Billy holds Steve’s gaze until he finally says, ‘Fine, we can fight the stupid aliens together,’ and storms back into the living room, setting the game up again. He throws Steve’s joystick at him when he settles beside Billy on the couch, and then changes the game mode. ‘You are such a fucking girl, Harrington.’

‘Hey, no insulting your teammate,’ Steve says.

‘Whatever.’ Billy presses start; the alien horde advances on them. But it’s Steve sitting beside him that makes Billy’s blood tingle.

‘And we won!’ Steve holds a hand up, grinning at Billy. He waves it when Billy only glowers at him. ‘Come on, man, don’t leave me hanging.’

Billy rolls his eyes, but he gives Steve a high five, lips twitching against his will.

‘Wasn’t that more fun?’

‘No,’ Billy says, but he’s smiling now. Can’t help it. The way Steve is smiling at him is infectious, suffuses his blood with a warmth that’s more intoxicating than the beers he’s had. He blinks and starts the game again.

They play a few more times,and Billy has to admit that it _is_ fun to play with Steve, instead of against him. It’s only a dumb video game, but they work well together. Even when Billy played on a team—basketball or baseball—he was always determined to play better, faster, harder, than everyone else.

And maybe he’s still doing that, stubbornly trying to shoot more than Steve and get the command ship first, but it feels different at the same time. It’s strange, but Billy likes it. He’s never liked sharing victory before, but the thrill he gets from Steve’s goofy fist bumps and smiles when they win is almost as strong as the thrill he used to get from beating Steve.

Steve flops back after their last win, letting out a low grown. ‘OK, I’m done fighting aliens.’ His legs fall open and he slides down the couch.

The press of his thigh is warm against Billy’s and his hand almost touches Billy’s knee.

‘We’ve got _Starship_ ,’ Billy says. ‘It’s kinda shitty, but—‘

‘No more video games.’ Steve sighs, stretching his arms above his head. It makes his shirt ride up, but not far, and Billy swallows his disappointment. Steve’s head lolls toward Billy.‘It’s fun, but I have no idea how Dustin can spend all day playing them.’

Billy grunts. Silence falls between them, but Steve seems content in it. Billy isn’t. It itches under his skin and he digs his nails into his palms. ‘We could finish that game of one on one from the other night.’

Steve looks up at Billy. ‘Maybe something less competitive.’ He taps Billy’s knee with his knuckle.

Billy chews on his thumbnail. Hanging out for the sake of it is something he’s still not used to. It’s becoming familiar with Steve, but Billy is too restless to sit here doing nothing. He scans the room, eyes landing on his weights. ‘You can spot me.’

‘You want me to spot you? That’s your idea of a fun Friday night?’ Steve raises his brows. ‘Well, that sounds thrilling. Sign me right up.’

‘C’mon, you’re the only person I know who’s strong enough, aside from my dad, and he won’t do it.’ Billy squares his jaw. ‘And you owe me.’

‘What for?’

‘My hospitality.’

‘Wow, yeah, I practically had to beg you to get me a beer, and you haven’t even fed me.’ Steve snorts. ‘Some hospitality.’

‘I’ll give you food if you spot me.’

‘Are you trying to bribe me into spotting you?’ Steve’s lips quirk and he shakes his head.‘Anyway, it’s still a pass from me.’ Before the irritation sparking in Billy’s blood can ignite, Steve adds, ‘For tonight, anyway,’ and the feeling gutters. Steve runs a hand over his face. ‘I’m not drunk, I’m no lightweight’—he looks up at Billy—‘but I wouldn’t wanna mess up that pretty face of yours.’

‘That would be a tragedy,’ Billy says, swallowing against the heat prickling in his throat.

Steve hums, then he pushes himself up with a hand on Billy’s knee. ‘Time for food?’

‘Uh, yeah.’

There’s a casserole in the fridge and Billy heats it while Steve sits at the table, his knee still burning where Steve had touched him. It’s not…it doesn’t mean anything—Steve is just a handsy drunk—no matter how much Billy wants it to. No matter how much he aches with it. His stomach growls and Steve glances over at him, amused.

Billy turns away and dishes out the casserole.

‘This is good’—Steve points at the plate with his spoon, speaking around a mouthful of food—‘really good.’

‘Susan left it for me.’

‘She’s your stepmom, right?’ At Billy’s nod, Steve says, ‘I met her once. She was picking up Max when I was picking up Dustin. She seems nice.’

Billy looks down at his plate. The thing is, Susan _is_ nice. All sweetness and smiles and no fucking backbone. The perfect little wife for Neil Hargrove. ‘Yeah,’ Billy says, ‘she’s fine.’

‘Where are they?’ Steve drinks some beer, swallowing audibly. ‘Susan and your dad and Max?’

‘They’ve gone to visit Max’s grandparents.’

‘You didn’t want to go?’

‘Are we having dinner, or are you interrogating me?’ Billy snaps.

Steve raises his brows and holds up his hands. ‘Just making conversation.’

Billy licks his lips. ‘Max’s grandma doesn’t like me. Dad thought it’d be better if I stayed here.’ He leans back, fixes his mouth into a smirk, and spreads his arms. ‘And now I have the place to myself all weekend.’

‘Well, thanks for letting me intrude.’

‘No sweat,’ Billy says, holding Steve’s gaze maybe a moment too long.

Steve looks away, smile faltering, a furrow creasing his brow. ‘Hey, uh, can I ask you something?’ He presses his lips together. ‘Not an interrogation, just a question.’

‘Shoot.’

‘Is it weird?’ Steve pushes the scraps of the casserole around his plate. He glances up. ‘Your parents not being together?’

It’s weird and it’s shitty and it should feel normal, now, because it’s been years. And in some ways it does, but in the ways it counts it doesn’t feel normal at all. Billy only says, ‘Yes.’

‘That sucks.’

‘Why’d you wanna know?’ Billy asks, swinging back on his chair. ‘Trouble in paradise? Think Mommy and Daddy might not love each other anymore?’

‘No. I mean…I don’t know if they—’ Steve sucks in a breath, eyes dipping. ‘I just thought…I can’t imagine all of us not being together.’ He shakes his head, leaning back in his chair. ‘Then again, my dad’s barely home, anyway, and when he is, he’s…not _there_ , you know?’ His face screws up. ‘Shit, that doesn’t make sense.’

‘Yeah, it does.’

Steve shoots Billy a surprised, but grateful, look. ‘It’d still be weird if he wasn’t there at all, though. If he lived somewhere else with another wife, or my mom had another husband.’

Billy’s chest tightens. ‘You get used to it.’

‘I guess.’ Steve clears his throat. ‘Hey, uh, Susan didn’t leave anything for dessert, did she?’

‘You’re still hungry?’

‘I’m a growing boy.’ Steve arches his back, drumming his hands on his chest.

‘Yeah, but which way,’ Billy says, standing and poking Steve in the stomach.

Steve hunches, batting Billy’s hand away, but he’s smiling up at Billy, so easy and…and… _fond_.

‘Anyway,’ Billy says, going to the counter and bringing back a perfectly frosted Devil’s food cake, ‘you’re in luck.’

The cake had been unexpected. It was on the counter when Billy made himself breakfast, a note written in Susan’s neat hand tucked beneath it. The note was nothing special— _have a good weekend, sweetie,_ and _enjoy the cake, I know it’s your favourite_ —but it was probably the longest communication Susan and Billy have had…well, ever.

Susan mostly keeps out of Billy’s way, and he keeps out of hers. She does his laundry, makes him dinner, because that’s what Neil would expect. So, the casserole would be fine—Billy has to eat, after all, and cooking is a woman’s job—but a cake? A cake, just for Billy, would be _spoiling_ him. And Susan has never done anything like this, anything out of line, not even after Billy was in the hospital.

Billy cuts two thick slices and thinks that maybe Susan has more backbone than he’s given her credit for. But it’s more likely that she felt guilty her mom hates Billy so much he’s not even welcome at her parents’ house. Bitterness wells up in Billy and he shoves it down, nudging a slice of cake toward Steve.

The cake is good—Susan’s cakes always are—but Steve practically _moans_ around his fork.

The noises shoot right through Billy, settling low in his gut. He shifts in his seat, clenches his hand around his fork until the metal digs into his palm. ‘You want some alone time?’ he asks, brow raised and nose screwed up.

‘I could marry this cake,’ Steve says, with a wistful sigh. ‘But’—he points his fork at Billy—‘it’s not as good as my mom’s coconut cake.’

‘That so?’

Steve nods. ‘My mom’s a pretty decent cook, but her coconut cake would knock your socks right off. I’ll get her to make it next time you come over.’

Jesus Christ, Billy’s not sure he could survive watching Steve eat something he enjoys _more_ than this. And then Steve’s words catch up with him. _Next time you come over_. Said so casually, like it’s a given. Like of _course_ they’re going to keep hanging out, keep being…friends. ‘I’ll make sure and wear my best socks,’ Billy says.

Steve smiles and Billy’s heart stutters.

After the cake, they go back to the living room and play a few more games, watch TV—Steve insists on _Miami Vice_ —listen to music, and _talk_. More than Billy has ever talked with anyone. It’s tempting to explain away the ease of their conversation with the beer, but it’s more than alcohol. Billy knows it, feels it in his gut.

So, when he says, ‘You didn’t tell me how it went with coach,’ he’s not surprised to find that he actually wants to know.

‘Oh’—Steve blinks over at Billy—‘pretty good. He said I can help out, a bit. See if I like it. If it works out, he said we can talk more down the track, you know?’

‘Cool.’

‘And, uh, don’t laugh but…’ Steve’s face scrunches up. ‘He suggested helping out with Little League.’

‘Now why would I laugh about that?’

‘Yeah,’ Steve says, ‘why would you laugh at me? That doesn’t sound like you at all.’

Billy grins, arms folded behind his head, legs stretched out in front of him.

The needle skips over the blank space at the end of side one of _Ace of Spaces_ and static hisses through the speakers, but Billy can’t be bothered to get up and change it over. He’s too comfortable, sprawled on the couch, full of beer and cake and a gentle buzz that might be because of Steve.

But then Steve reaches across and grabs Billy’s wrist, turning it to look at Billy’s watch, and Billy’s mind blanks. ‘Shit,’ Steve says, ‘it’s late.’

Finally coming back to himself, Billy snatches his wrist away. It feels like Steve’s fingers are still curled around it, burned into his skin. ‘Something wrong with your watch?’

‘Forgot it.’ Steve holds up his arm, showing off his bare wrist. ‘Anyway, it’s late,’ he repeats.

‘Guess so.’

‘And I probably shouldn’t drive after all those beers.’

Billy licks his lips and looks over at Steve. He can see where this is going. ‘Maybe not.’

‘So…’ Steve raises his brows, hopefully, but when Billy stays silent he says, ‘Can I crash here?’

‘Yeah,’ Billy says, ‘but you’re sleeping on the couch.’

‘The couch.’ Steve’s brow furrows and he pokes the cushion beneath him. ‘This couch.’

‘Yeah, this is the one.’

‘This two-seater couch.’

Billy hums.

Steve’s eyes narrow; he wriggles around from where he’s slumped with his feet on the floor until he’s lying across the couch, head and back on one cushion, legs across Billy’s lap. ‘Oh yeah,’ he says, giving a pointed wiggle of his feet, which dangle off the end of the couch, ‘this will be super comfortable.’

It takes Billy’s brain a moment to process what’s happening because Steve has casually draped himself across Billy like they do this all the time. Like they’re buddy-buddy best pals, or like they’re…

‘Well, _I_ won’t be here,’ Billy says, ‘now get your stinking feet off me.’

‘They’re not _on_ you’—Steve props himself on his elbows—‘because there’s no room for them.’

Billy shoves Steve’s legs, then stands, his own legs wobbly beneath him. ‘You can sleep in my room,’ he says, ‘but you’d better not snore.’

‘Knew you’d cave,’ Steve says, head pillowed on his hands, a shit-eating grin on his face.

Fucker. Billy grabs Steve’s ankle and pulls; Steve lands on his ass with a thud, glaring up at Billy.

‘Asshole,’ Steve says, pushing himself to his feet. He rubs his ass and, when Billy snickers, says, ‘You’re such a dick.’

Billy slings an arm around Steve’s neck, pulling him into a headlock. ‘What was that?’

‘I said’—Steve wriggles in Billy’s hold—‘you’re a dick.’ He breaks free and punches Billy in the arm.

‘Watch it.’

Steve reaches out and scrubs his hand through Billy’s hair.

‘That’s it, Harrington,’ Billy says, ‘your ass is grass,’ and before Steve can say or do anything Billy tackles him.

They land with a thud, a tangle of grappling arms and legs, gasping for breath between bursts of laughter and joking threats. Neither of them manage to gain the upper hand for long as they wrestle on the living room floor, victory slipping further and further away.

But then, finally, Billy has Steve pinned. Steve’s arms are held tight to his sides by Billy’s, Steve’s back pushing into Billy’s chest with every gasping breath. Even though it’s a _charade_ of what Billy really wants, it thrills through him.

‘Get off of me,’ Steve says.

‘Not until you say uncle.’

‘You _win_ , OK?’ Steve wriggles in Billy’s hold. ‘Now, get off of me.’ He manages to get an arm loose and his elbow goes right into Billy’s ribs.

‘Fuck,’ Billy says, letting Steve go, and rubbing at his chest.

Steve pushes himself to his knees. His shoulders are tight and he’s breathing hard and Billy realises that Steve wasn’t playing anymore.

‘Are you—’ Billy starts, but stops before he says ‘okay.’ Because if Steve isn’t okay, Billy doesn’t know what to do after that. So he lets the question hang, incomplete, wondering if Steve can feel it like a tangible thing between them, or if that’s just Billy.

A shuddering breath; Steve stands, turns to Billy. His face goes through several emotions before it settles on a smile that’s too forced. ‘Guess you win that round,’ he says, then punches Billy softly in the shoulder. But he’s shaky beneath the bravado.

Seems like Billy’s not the only one good at pretending. ‘Yeah,’ Billy says, then, ‘Come on,’ and leads Steve the few steps to his room.

‘Cool room,’ Steve says, standing in front of the couch by the fireplace. He’s looking around, eyes still a little wide, breath a little ragged, but whatever had freaked him out when they were wrestling has passed. ‘It’s…nice.’

The room is a mess, no different than usual, but Billy doesn’t care. It’s not as fancy as Steve’s room, with its fucking en suite, but it’s _Billy’s_. ‘Gee, thanks,’ he says, crossing his arms over his chest.

Where everything had felt so easy in the living room and the kitchen, now it feels awkward. Billy doesn’t do awkward. ‘I gotta piss,’ he says, then grabs a pair of sweats from a pile of clothing that might be clean, and goes to the bathroom.

He takes a leak, changes his clothes, and brushes his teeth; when he gets back, Steve is half-sitting half-lying on his bed, flipping through an issue of _Penthouse_.

‘Make yourself at home,’ Billy says.

Steve idly flicks a page, looks up. ‘It was on the bed.’

Billy grunts.

A flash of red peeks out from under the pillow Steve is resting on. Heat rushes Billy and his ears ring. It’s the sweatshirt he’d borrowed from Steve the other night. Billy’s been sleeping with it under his pillow, like some _girl_.

If Steve turns and sees it…

‘You sleeping in your clothes?’ Billy says.

Steve closes the magazine and looks down at himself. ‘Guess not.’ He stands, shaking off his jacket, dropping it on the bed. It covers the sweatshirt and Billy lets out a long breath, but it catches as Steve strips to his undershirt and shorts.

It’s the first time since, Christ, since the showers after gym, that Billy’s seen Steve undress. That feels like a fucking lifetime ago.

‘Where’s the bathroom?’ Steve asks.

Billy blinks, realises he’s been staring at Steve’s _arms_ , and says, ‘Down the hall.’

Steve nods, moving away, then pauses by the door. ‘Is it cool if I call my mom?’

‘Yeah,’ Billy says, in too much of a daze to make fun of Steve, ‘there’s a phone in the kitchen.’

‘Thanks.’

The walls are so thin that the soft murmur of Steve’s voice carries all the way to Billy’s room. The conversation doesn’t last long. Then there’s a lull before the toilet flushes and water runs; the pipes throb and shudder. The bathroom door opens and closes, padding footsteps move toward Billy’s room.

Billy hasn’t moved in all that time, is still caught up in thoughts of Steve and Steve undressing and Steve in his room.

Moments before Steve comes back, Billy practically launches himself onto the bed, settling on the side closest to the wall. The bed groans in protest and the chain of his swag lamp rattles against the wall when he jostles it.

He does his best to look casual—arms folded behind his head, one leg crossed over the other—but he’s not sure he pulls it off. Not like he used to.

But if Steve notices anything, he doesn’t mention it, only says, ‘Guess I don’t have to ask which side of the bed you take.’

‘Who says you’re sleeping in here?’

Steve gives him a pissy look and clambers onto the bed. It’s big enough for the two of them but small enough that Steve ends up a little too close, all warm along Billy’s side.

Their shoulders touch and Billy fights the twin urges to shift both closer to Steve and away from him. The casual touches he’d leaned into earlier seem heavy now. He runs a hand over his face.

The mattress dips as Steve shifts, getting under the covers. He frowns, wriggling around.

‘What are you doing?’

‘I think I’m sitting on something.’

Panic spikes in Billy’s veins. The sweatshirt. How the hell is he going to explain why it’s under his _pillow_ **—**

Steve holds up a pair of Billy’s briefs. He makes a disgusted face and throws them at Billy.

‘Oh, hey, wondered where they were.’

‘Ugh.’ Steve wipes his hand on Billy’s arm. ‘I can’t believe I just touched your dirty underwear.’

‘How’d you know they’re dirty?’ Billy dangles them at Steve, gratified by Steve’s grimace. ‘Have a nice close look?’ He throws them and they land on Steve’s face.

‘Gross.’ Steve throws them back.

’You know’—Billy shoves the briefs at Steve—‘some people would pay good money just to _look_ at my dirty underwear.’

‘Only deranged perverts.’

‘C’mon, admit it, it gave you a thrill.’

‘You’re sick,’ Steve says, but he’s laughing, finally throwing the briefs in the direction of Billy’s couch. A faint pink tinge colours his cheeks; he glances back at Billy, doesn’t look away.

Billy is all too aware that they’re slumped side by side, in his bed, where he’s fucked countless girls, and where he’s jerked off countless times thinking about Steve being here with him. But not like this…

‘Get the lights, will you?’ Billy grinds out.

‘Uh, sure.’ Steve slides out of bed, his shorts bunched up, and shuts off the main light.

It leaves the swag lamp above Billy’s bed as the only light in the room, but Billy leaves it on, for now. He’s not sure he’s ready to lie by Steve in the dark. His brain is mixed up enough as it is.

The bed dips again, and Steve’s foot brushes Billy’s beneath the covers. ‘You tired?’ he asks.

Billy looks at him, sidelong, trying not to think about how much he likes the sight of Steve in his bed. ‘Not really.’

‘Me either.’ Steve lets out a breathy sigh, one hand folded under his head. ‘You remember sleepovers when you were a kid, and you’d stay up talking all night because you were too excited to sleep?’

‘I never had sleepovers.’

‘Oh.’ There’s something like pity, or confusion, or maybe both in Steve’s voice and in his eyes when he turns to look at Billy. Like he’s trying to figure out what kind of freak never had a sleepover. ‘Well, um…’ He trails off, looks up at the ceiling, brow furrowed. ‘It’s kid’s stuff, anyway, right?’

Billy pushes down a wave of _something_ —anger, disappointment, regret—and makes a noise he hopes sounds like he’s agreeing. He kicks at the covers, legs twisted in the sheets.

It’s too warm, stuffy, with the both of them in the bed, and Billy isn’t used to sleeping in sweats _and_ long sleeves. But if he takes his sweatshirt off, Steve will see…

The scars on his arms aren’t that bad, look more like tattoos in certain lighting. They’re not like normal scars, but then they weren’t from normal wounds. They were left in the wake of the Mind Flayer infecting his blood. The doctors said they’re like the marks victims of lightning strikes are left with—crawling along his skin like vines, following the network of his veins—but those fade. Billy’s haven’t. He keeps the sweatshirt on.

‘When do your folks get back?’ Steve asks.

‘Sunday.’

‘And today’s Friday.’

‘Congratulations,’ Billy says, ‘you know the days of the week.’

Steve ignores the jibe and says, ‘What are you doing tomorrow? I don’t have work and I thought…we could hang out again.’ He nudges Billy’s side with his elbow. ‘I’ll even spot you.’

‘Yeah, OK. You do owe me.’

‘OK, sure.’ Steve huffs. ‘I’m not going to watch you work out all day, though.’

‘You should be so lucky.’

Steve smiles, blinking slowly, like he’s on the edge of sleep.

Silence falls between them. Billy is caught between lax contentment and a slow coiling tension, sitting low in his gut. Usually, he’d jerk off before bed, and part of him is tempted to go for it. See how Steve would react. He wonders if Steve would recoil in disgust, or maybe join him. He’s not sure which he wants.

Before he can decide, a yawn takes hold of him, all those beers and sleepless nights finally catching up.

‘Guess you are tired,’ Steve says, turning his head toward Billy.

‘Guess so.’

The lamp above them swings gently, softly moving shadows painting Steve’s face. His gaze roams Billy’s expression, searching though Billy doesn’t know what for. Steve presses his lips together, eyes dipping. He opens his mouth, closes it. ‘Fighting aliens is pretty tiring, huh?’

‘Yeah.’

‘Well,’ Steve says, drawing the one syllable out, ‘good night.’ He hesitates a moment, then rolls onto his side, facing away from Billy. His shirt stretches tight over the hill of his shoulder, and Billy is struck with its breadth, the span of Steve’s shoulders wider than his usual curved posture has suggested.

Billy’s palms itch with desire—to touch, trace, feel—and he curls his hands into fists at his sides, nails digging in. It’s the beer and the nearness of Steve and the sound of breaths that aren’t his own. It’s the last year of _wanting_ surging up within him every time he sees Steve, harder to ignore as sleep pulls him down, dismantling his carefully built walls.

Steve snuffles, curling in on himself, his feet skimming Billy’s shin as he moves his legs.

There’s electricity in that brief touch, even through Billy’s sweats. Billy breathes in, then out; he realises he never responded to Steve and says, ‘Night, Harrington,’ but Steve’s deep breaths have turned to soft snores.

Billy turns off the lamp and closes his eyes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading :)
> 
> I [have a moodboard for this chapter on tumblr](https://gothyringwald.tumblr.com/post/627195955237781504/late-night-feelings-chapter-four-of-eleven) because apparently I need a new moodboard for every chapter haha XD I also have [a playlist/soundtrack for the fic](https://open.spotify.com/playlist/17F53OPoe7IFHjndQT7blE?si=07LXee3vRJ-ADqADF2WjqA), which may end up getting revised a little along the way. And I was too tired to update the research post this time...
> 
> Also, I want to apologise for taking so long to update. I won’t go into it, but I’m just really struggling with my confidence in my writing, at the moment, and it’s not exactly conducive to creativity, I guess! But, yeah, sorry about that! :S


	5. FIVE

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks once again to LazyBaker/granpappy-winchester for reading this chapter over for me and encouraging me! <3333
> 
> Also Billy talks about his abuse from Neil a bit in this chapter - not graphically but enough it may upset some people (I do have a tag, but I wanted to double make sure people knew)

Steve slips his fingers past the waistband of his shorts, running them along the length of his cock. He’s half-hard already, but not sure if he wants to take his time, get the photos out of his top drawer for inspiration, or if he’s too tired and wound up to drag it out.

He curls his hand into a loose fist, hips rolling, figuring he’ll opt for fast tonight. But knocking cuts through the daze of his arousal and he snatches his hand out of his shorts. At first, he thinks it’s coming from his bedroom door, and he grabs a pillow to cover himself.

‘Yeah?’ he calls out, but there’s no answer.

Moonlight slips through the crack of his curtains, but his room is otherwise dark. He switches his bedside lamp on, swinging his feet over the side of his bed.

Another knock. And another. Coming from the window. Cold panic replaces Steve’s lingering arousal, because there’s no way a person could be knocking at his window. For one delirious moment he wonders if Demogorgons can fly, but why would a monster knock?

It’s only a couple of steps to the window but it feels like twenty. Heart hammering in his throat, Steve grabs a curtain and edges it open, enough so he can peek through. He lets out a breath.

Beyond the slatsof the blinds, there is a familiar figure leaning on the windowsill. Steve yanks the curtain open, pulls up the blinds, and knocks on the cold glass.

Billy startles, swaying back, and Steve throws the window open, grabbing Billy’s arm.

‘What the fuck, Harrington?’ Billy hisses, his grip white-knuckled on the sill. ‘I was one second away from being splattered all over your patio.’

‘You’re the one banging at my window in the middle of the night like some kind of deranged Romeo,’ Steve says, stomach dropping as soon as the words leave his mouth. Maybe he could have made a more revealing comparison if he’d tried, but fuck, it’s bad enough.

Billy’s brows lift but he only says, ‘Well, I’m freezing my nuts off up here, Juliet. You gonna let me in?’

‘Yeah, sure,’ Steve says, face warming. ‘What are you standing on, anyway?’

‘Some ladder.’ Billy clambers inside, his boots sinking into Steve’s carpet.

‘Oh, yeah’—Steve folds his arms over his stomach—‘the roof guys left that there. I forgot.’

‘Thought you might’ve left it out for late night visitors.’ Billy straightens himself out, adjusting a set of headphones around his neck. The cord snakes beneath his jacket, to where it’s plugged into a Walkman clipped onto his jeans.

‘No,’ Steve says, ‘didn’t think I’d have any.’

‘Don’t tell me there aren’t any girls scaling the wall to spend a night with King Steve.’

Steve’s lips quirk. ‘I don’t make my girlfriends climb ladders to see me.’

‘Girlfriends, huh?’ Billy’s tongue darts out; he rests his wait on one leg, hip cocked. ‘Got a few on the go?’

‘None right now.’

Silvery lightspills through the window, limning Billy’s hair, catching on his earring. Billy makes a low, humming sound, his eyes glittering in the dark.

Steve’s pulse hammers away—annoying and insistent—and there are goosebumps all over his skin that have little to do with the icy breeze blowing through the window. A shiver runs down his spine and he shuts the window firmly.

He stands there a moment, two, with his hands curled over the closed window before he turns back, saying, ‘So, what brings you to my window?’ He tilts his head. ‘Most people would just knock on the front door.’

Billy’s brows knit together as he kicks off his boots and settles onto Steve’s bed. ‘It’s like, 2 AM, dude.’

‘What?’ The alarm clock on Steve’s bedside table reads 02:03in glowing red. How did it get so late? ‘Well, good call, then.’ He leans back on the windowsill, crossing one ankle over the other. ‘What were you going to do, before you saw the ladder?’

Billy shrugs one shoulder. ‘Throw rocks.’

‘Classic.’

Billy grunts. There are dark smudges under his eyes, his hair is a mess, and he’s paler than usual.

‘Couldn’t sleep, huh?’ Steve wants to ask if it was nightmares again, or something else. If Billy feels the restlessness that strikes Steve, sometimes. The restlessness that keeps him up past two without realising.

And, beyond that desperate need to know he’s not alone, there is some indefinable need to… _do_ something. To make it better. It’s not something Steve thought he could ever feel about Billy.

‘Something like that,’ Billy says.

‘Me either.’

Billy leans forward. ‘Shitty dreams.’ His voice is low and rough; he shakes his head. ‘You know how it is.’ Before Steve can reply, he says, ‘You got some headphones?’ unclipping the Walkman from his belt.

‘Yeah,’ Steve says, ‘somewhere.’ He moves over to his bedside table, aware that he’s kneeling and Billy is above him. Billy’s knee brushes Steve’s shoulder when he swings his legs over the side of the bed, leaning over Steve to peek in the top drawer.

Shit. The drawer where Steve keeps the _photos_. There’s one of Christie Brinkley in her string bikini, like the poster on his wall. Nothing unusualabout that. But there’s one of Don Johnson, too, soaking wet, his white linen suit clinging to him. There’s no way to explain what it’s doing alongside the photo of Christie Brinkley that doesn’t end in a conversation Steve does _not_ want to have. Not with anyone, but especially not with Billy.

He shoves the drawer shut and glares up at Billy. ‘Do you mind?’

‘Nope.’ Billy grins, a little feral, completely gorgeous. ‘Got something in there you don’t want me to see?’

‘No,’ Steve murmurs, ‘but my headphones aren’t in there.’ He opens the next drawer, heat prickling along his jaw, down his throat.

As he rummages, the drawer above edges open. Steve shuts it again, hand on top of Billy’s.

‘Don’t want me seeing your jerk-off material?’ Billy slips his hand away and tuts. ‘I mean, you were casually flipping through my _Penthouse_ collection the other night.’

‘It was one magazine!’ Steve huffs. ‘And you left it out on the bed.’

‘Still, fair’s fair, right?’

If Steve weren’t so distracted, he might wonder why Billy is being insistent about this. If it’s his regular teasing, or something else. But Steve only says, ‘There’s nothing in there.’

‘Sure,’ Billy says, but he flops back onto Steve’s bed, drawer forgotten.

Steve’s shoulders sag. The headphones are in the bottom drawer, beneath the tacky plastic crown he got for being prom king. The wires are tangled around the peaks and the crown is pulled out along with the headphones.

Billy snatches the lot, eyes lighting up with a mean glint. ‘Is this your prom king crown?’

‘I meant to throw it out.’ Steve rubs his hand over the back of his neck.

‘Oh, I’m sure you did.’ Billy holds it up, turning it this way and that, but then he frowns. ‘What the fuck did you do to your headphones?’ He tugs on a wire, pulling it taut around the crown.

‘They tangle themselves up, you know what they’re like.’

Billy shakes his head and sits up, starts detangling them, muttering to himself. It’s not long before his movements become more forceful, and the wires only tangle up more. His brows knit and his nostrils flare.

Steve bites his lip against a smile and holds out a hand. ‘Give them here.’

‘I’m nearly there.’ Billy yanks the wires, making a bigger knot. He grunts in frustration, pulling harder before he throws the mess of wires and headphones and plastic crown at Steve. ‘Fine, you do it.’

‘Scoot over.’ Steve makes a motion with his hand, but Billy doesn’t budge. Steve rolls his eyes and clambers over Billy, settling with his legs crossed, the crown resting in his lap. He takes his time, following the knots and tangles, concentrating on feeling them out, and not on Billy next to him.

But he’s all too aware of him, his breathing and the scent of cigarettes and cologne, the way he leans over, reaching for the— Steve catches Billy’s wrist moments before he can slide the drawer open.

‘Good reflexes, Harrington,’ Billy says, a little breathless.

‘Yeah.’ Steve’s still leaning over Billy; he licks his lips. ‘Just…stop snooping in my drawers, OK?’

‘Got a picture of Angela Lansbury in there?’

‘Yes,’ Steve says, and then, ‘Here you go,’ shoving the disentangled headphones at Billy. He leaves the crown in his lap. ‘Just takes a little patience.’

‘I’m plenty patient,’ Billy says.

’Sure.’

Billy’s eyes narrow. His gaze flicks down, and he smirks. He picks the crown up, sitting it on Steve’s head, patting it down. ‘King Steve should be wearing his crown.’

‘How many times do I have to tell you to stop calling me that?’

‘At least another, hmm, twenty or so,’ Billy says, but then his expression sobers and he tilts his head. ‘How come you hate it so much?’

‘Because it’s bullshit,’ Steve says. He takes the crown off of his head, turning it over in his hands. ‘It’s all bullshit,’ he adds, and throws the crown aside. It lands somewhere in the shadows.

‘Fair enough,’ Billy says, and then, ‘Here,’ handing the headphones to Steve.

Static hisses in Steve’s mind; he can’t keep up with Billy. He never can.

‘Works better if you put them on,’ Billy says, his own headphones nestled back on his head.

‘Uh, yeah.’ Steve slides the headphones on, thoughts of prom and high school slipping away. He doesn’t get Billy. He’d thought maybe Billy’s headphones weren’t working, and he wanted to borrow Steve’s. It hadn’t occurred to him that Billy would want to listen to music _with him_.

Billy presses play.

The tape whirs, a few seconds of blank space, before the opening strains of a song filter through the headphones. It’s familiar and it settles something within Steve he hadn’t realised was churned up.

‘It’s the song from the diner,’ he says, then realises Billy probably can’t hear him. He pokes Billy and Billy’s eyes snap open. Goosebumps skitter up Steve’s arms. He tugs on his headphone, showing that he wants Billy to listen to him. ‘This is the song from the diner,’ he repeats, when Billy pulls his headphones off.

‘Yeah.’

Maybe Billy coming to Steve’s in the middle of the night, wanting to listen to this song with him, doesn’t mean anything, but Steve knows that he wants it to. ‘It’s nice,’ he says. The same thing he’d said that night.

‘Aerosmith doesn’t make nice music.’ A beat and then Billy lets his headphone snap back to his ear.

Steve does the same.

The song ends, changing over to another. It’s _nice_ , too, and so is the one after that. They’re all softer than the grinding songs Steve remembers blasting from Billy’s Camaro in the Hawkins High parking lot.

A pang shoots through Steve at the thought of the Camaro. The sound of screeching tires and metal drowns out soothing guitar, and the memory of the impact judders through his body. His stomach twists; he breathes in, then out.

Billy is slumped beside him, unaware of what’s going on inside Steve. His head is tipped back and his eyes are closed. Long lashes kiss the ridges of his cheeks. But he’s awake, fingers drumming on the Walkman, keeping time with the song.

If Billy, who is so often like a hurricane, can be calm, so can Steve. He shifts in place, moving the pillow behind him, so the headboard isn’t digging into the back of his neck. The motion presses him closer to Billy, and there’s plenty of room for Steve to put distance between them, but he’s not going to move if Billy isn’t.

It’s nice, comforting, to be close to Billy. And maybe that’s the weirdest thing to ever happen to Steve—that Billy Hargrove’s presence could be comforting. But Billy isn’t the same and Steve has been sinking into their friendship since that first night they watched movies together. It’s been…almost easy in a way that so little has been easy in Steve’s life for a long time, even if it’s stirring up a lot of feelings he’d rather stay buried.

Lulled by the warmth of Billy and the soft music, sleep whispers to Steve, pulling him under. His eyes drift closed, and—

 _Blam, blam, blam_! A blast of drumsbassguitar.

Steve rips the headphones off, eyes shooting open. Billy is grinning over at him—the wicked grin that makes Steve’s heart beat—his finger on the volume dial of the Walkman. Steve punches Billy in the shoulder. ‘Asshole!’

Billy’s tongue pokes between his teeth; his own headphones are around his neck.

‘What the fuck was that for?’ Steve’s pulse is slowing but his nerves are still jangled.

‘I was bored.’

‘Well, _I_ was enjoying the song,’ Steve says, ‘until you nearly burst my eardrums.’

‘Aww.’ Billy mock-pouts at him. ‘Here’—he presses eject on the Walkman—‘you can keep it.’

Their fingers brush as Steve takes the tape. ‘Are you sure?’

‘I can make another,’ is all Billy says. He reaches into his jacket, taking out the box, and throws it at Steve.

It glances off the side of Steve’s head, landing in his lap. ‘You’re such a dick.’ Steve picks the box up, turning it over; it opens with a faint creak.

The insert is covered in Billy’s scrawling hand; some of the words are smudged, and some of the letters are blank indents where the ballpoint pen must have stopped working. It looks new, though, and Steve’s pulse ticks. Did Billy make this _for_ him?

There are no answers to be found in Billy’s impassive face, so Steve says, ‘Thanks,’ and puts the tape back into the box. He reaches across Billy to set it on the bedside table.

There’s a strange glimmer in Billy’s gaze when Steve sits back but it’s gone when his eyes squeeze shut on a jaw-cracking yawn.

‘Tired?’ Steve asks.

‘Nah,’ Billy says, ‘just stretching my mouth.’

‘Think it’s big enough already.’

‘Hm.’ Billy stretches out, arms above his head, toes pointed. His back arches, and he lets out a low, soft sound, like a big, surly cat.

As he moves, the hem of his jeans brushes Steve’s bare ankle. ‘Your pants are damp,’ Steve says.

Billy looks down and shrugs. ‘Guess they got kinda wet on the way here.’

‘Did you walk?’ There’s something in Billy’s curt nod that tells Steve not to ask why, so he says, ‘Well, you can borrow some pants. If you want.’

‘Don’t want me messing up your fancy bedding?’

‘It’s not—’ Steve sighs, but he looks at Billy and a thought tugs at the back of his mind. It tells him maybe Billy can’t accept the offer outright, so he says, ‘Yeah, sure.’

‘OK, well, whatever. Go get ‘em, then.’

Steve shakes his head but he slides off of the bed, going over to his dresser and pulling out a pair of sweats. Billy takes them and disappears into the bathroom.

It’s strange. Billy was never shy about his body, so Steve figured he’d strip off in the room, unabashed as always. But then Billy had changed in the bathroom at his house, the other night, after they’d played video games. And he’d done the same, here, after the storm.

An image of the twisting, spidery red scar Steve had glimpsed on Billy’s stomach flashes in his mind. How Billy had tugged his shirt down, glaring at Steve. How Billy has worn his shirts buttoned properly since summer.

Steve has scars—it’d be hard to avoid them when you play sports, fight monsters and get beat up, on the regular—but they’re small things. The kind you forget about, until they surprise you one day when you’re getting changed or looking in the mirror in a certain light. But Billy’s scar…maybe that’s the kind you can’t forget.

Billy comes back out, wearing Steve’s sweats and, fuck, he’s shed his jacket and he’s wearing the sweatshirt he borrowed from Steve after the storm. Steve hadn’t even realised Billy never gave it back. It hits Steve so much harder, now, the sight of Billy in his clothes. Late at night. Alone in his bedroom. Everyone else asleep.

A slow burning warmth Steve had only been peripherally aware of engulfs him. Jesus Christ.

The bed creaks as Billy flops onto it, settling on top of the covers, watching Steve with half-lidded eyes. ‘You got any other tapes?’

‘Uh, yeah,’ Steve says, ‘but nothing you’d like.’

‘I shouldn’t be surprised. Guess I’ll have to educate you,’ Billy says, lips quirking. He taps the tape on the bedside table with one finger. ‘This is a start, before I ease you into the real good stuff.’

‘Oh yeah?’

‘Yeah.’

‘Well, I’m looking forward to it.’ Steve shifts his weight. ‘I think.’

Goosebumps prickle along his skin, but he doesn’t think it has anything to do with the fact that he’s still standing in only his shorts and undershirt. It’s more to do with how Billy is smiling up at him from the bed—not his trademark smirk, but a true, lazy smile.

‘You gonna stand there all night?’ Billy asks.

‘No,’ Steve says, but it’s a moment or two before he goes around the other side of the bed.

They’re sitting closer than before, but Billy doesn’t seem to mind. His eyes close and he tilts his head back. ‘Fuck, I’m tired,’ he says and it sounds more like he’s spilling his deepest, darkest secret than admitting a simple feeling.

‘You can crash, if you want,’ Steve says.

Billy cracks open an eye. He chews on his thumbnail, then finally says, ‘Don’t wanna sleep.’

There’s another long moment of silence before Steve says, ‘Me either. That’s why I didn’t go to bed, yet, I guess.’ He licks his lips. ‘I mean, the dreams…’ It’s only part of it—the restlessness is another—but he doesn’t want to explain that, yet. He wants to stay here, where Billy understands.

‘That’s familiar.’ Billy runs a hand over his face. ‘Must’ve been real bad, tonight, because my dad had to wake me up. Said I was screaming.’

‘Shit.’

Billy shifts. ‘Not the first time, either, so he was really pissed.’

‘He was pissed at you for having a nightmare? After what happened?’

‘Well, yeah.’ The look Billy shoots Steve cuts through him. ‘It’s not like he _knows_. He was told the same bullshit everyone else was.’

‘I guess…’

‘He thinks I should be over it by now.’ Billy shrugs a shoulder. ‘He’s probably right. It’s been months. And it’s not like whining about it is gonna help me.’

It’s similar to what Steve has been telling himself, that he just needs to get over it and move on, but what Billy went through was so much _worse_. ’You’re not whining—‘

‘Maybe.’ Billy’s tone is final. ‘Anyway, he hasn’t been on my case as much, since summer, so that’s something.’

‘On your case?’

‘Don’t act like you don’t know what I mean.’

Steve blinks. ‘I really don’t.’

‘El,’ Billy starts. ‘She saw, when she…’ He waves at his head. The covers rustle, the mattress dips. ‘Didn’t she tell?’

‘No,’ Steve says, ’that was private.’ His stomach churns, but he keeps his voice even as he says, ‘What was there to tell?’

Billy turns toward Steve, leaning in. There’s a flash in his eyes when he says, ‘I’ll tell you, if you tell me what’s in the drawer.’

Maybe Steve should tell Billy. Fair _is_ fair, after all, but it could change everything. ‘It’s…’ He clears his throat. ‘Private,’ he finishes, weakly.

‘Well’—Billy leans back—‘like you said, so’s this.’

‘Yeah.’ Steve shouldn’t have pressed, shouldn’t have asked Billy in the first place. Warmth creeps into his face, and he sticks his hands under his arms, just for something to do.

It’s not long before Billy says, ‘Come on, pretty boy, I’ve told you plenty of other private stuff.’ He lifts his shoulders and spreads his hands. ‘But if you don’t trust me…’

The thing is, Steve does, maybe more than he should. But he doesn’t know if he can trust Billy with _this_. His gut’s all twisted up and Steve doesn’t know if it’s telling him to give Billy this, because maybe Billy would understand, or to keep it to himself.

But he must take too long to answer because Billy turns away. ‘That answers that,’ he says, pushing off the bed.

Steve grabs Billy’s wrist. ‘Wait.’ He pulls, gently, but Billy doesn’t budge. ‘You don’t have to _go_. I like being with you.’ Shit. That’s not what he’d meant to say. ‘I mean, I like talking with you.’

Billy slips his hand away, placing it on his hip. He looks down at Steve, along the length of his nose, face blank. But it cracks on a smirk and he says, ‘I’m just fucking with you. I don’t care what’s in your drawers.’

And Steve can tell it’s a lie but he lets Billy nudge him over, so Billy can sit on the bed again.

‘Must be some freaky porn you got in there, Harrington,’ Billy says.

‘Uh, yeah,’ Steve says, ‘real freaky.’ He hugs his knees to his chest, resting his chin on his knees. ‘Nuns with whips and stuff.’

Billy huffs, shaking his head, but it melts into a rumble of deep, belly laughter. ‘Damn, you’re holding out on me.’ He shoves Steve and adds, ‘You’re a fucking dork.’

‘Takes one to know one.’

‘I am _not_ a dork.’

‘Whatever you say.’

Billy narrows his eyes but he settles back, legs stretched in front of him, arms folded over his stomach. ‘You really got nun porn in there?’

‘No just…inspiration.’

‘And who inspires you?’

It takes Steve a moment to realise what Billy’s asking, but when he does heat rushes him. ‘I’m not gonna tell you who I _jerk off_ to.’

‘Prude.’

‘Well you tell me, then.’

Billy winks at Steve and says, ‘I only think about you, pretty boy.’

‘Fuck off.’ And this is why Steve can’t tell Billy. Or part of why. He always makes jokes like this, and even though Steve is starting to wonder if maybe they’re not jokes at all he doesn’t know if it’s a risk he can take. ’Well,’ Steve says, all mock-apology, ‘I’m sorry to tell you, but _I_ think about Kristie Brinkley.’ His heart thuds. _And Don Johnson._ Thud. _And you._

Billy barks out a laugh. ‘Well, that just hurts,’ he says, but he’s smiling. It slowly fades, though, and his gaze goes distant. ‘When El dug into my head…’

‘You don’t have to tell me,’ Steve says.

But Billy continues like Steve didn’t speak, saying, ‘My old man… He slaps me around. That’s what El saw.’ It comes out in a rush, his voice low but clear. He looks straight ahead as he adds, ‘I mean, it’s not like I don’t deserve it, sometimes. He’s just keeping me in line. But he hasn’t since…’

A queasy feeling rises up in Steve. ‘Your dad hits you?’

‘It’s fine.’ Billy’s throat works. ‘It’s…nothing.’

‘It’s not—’

‘Don’t tell me your dad never hit you.’

‘No,’ Steve says, ‘not once.’

Billy chews on his thumb, tearing a strip of skin, his jaw a white line. ‘Yeah, well, guess you’re Mr Perfect.’

‘I’m not _perfect_. You don’t have to be perfect to not get—’ Steve stops. It’s not like he hasn’t seen anyone hit their kids before. Tommy H’s mom used to slap him upside the head all the time. They always laughed it off, so Steve had, too, even though it sat oddly in him. But he has a feeling that Billy’s talking about more than that. ‘Is it…was it bad?’

It’s a dumb question—it’s not like it could be _good_ —and he’s not even sure he wants to know, but he had to say something.

‘Nothing I can’t handle,’ Billy says, nostrils flaring. There’s a challenge in his gaze, but to what, Steve isn’t sure.

‘OK,’ Steve says, ‘I believe you.’ The lie sits uneasily on his tongue.

‘Got any cigarettes?’

‘No,’ Steve says, relieved to let the subject slide, ‘I ran out. Mom doesn’t like me smoking inside, anyway.’

‘Yeah, I remember.’ Billy’s jiggling his knee, drumming his fingers on his thigh. He jumps up and says, ‘It’s late. I’m gonna go.’

For the second time, Steve reaches out to grab Billy’s wrist as Billy moves away. Or, he means to, but Billy moves too quickly and he grabs Billy’s hand, instead. ‘You can stay,’ he says, holding Billy tight, ‘I don’t mind.’ He pulls and maybe it’s the lack of sleep loosening his tongue, but he adds, ‘I want you to.’

‘All right, don’t get your panties in a twist,’ Billy says, but he doesn’t pull his hand away, even as he slumps back onto the bed.

They sit side-by-side, holding hands, not saying anything. Steve wants to, but his mind is blank and his tongue is thick in his mouth. He turns, ready to blurt _anything_ , but his breath catches at the way Billy is looking at him. The hairs on Steve’s arms raise and his blood tingles. He can’t stop looking at Billy’s mouth, and he must be giving himself away completely, but Billy is still holding his hand and that must mean something and—

A loud clatter comes from somewhere outside. Steve jerks back, hand slipping from Billy’s grasp.

‘What the fuck?’ Billy’s head snaps around, toward the window.

‘I don’t—’ Steve’s heart hammers. He shakes himself and goes over to the window, peering outside. ‘The ladder fell,’ he says, on a shaky breath.

Billy comes up beside him, their pinky fingers touching where they rest on the sill. His breathing is loud in the quiet room. ‘Am I gonna have to go hide in the bathroom, or something?’

‘Huh?’

‘Wouldn’t that wake your parents.’ Billy juts his chin toward the fallen ladder.

Steve turns around, facing into the room. ‘Mom sleeps with ear plugs because dad snores,’ he says, not wondering why Billy might think he’d need to hide, ‘and Dad would probably sleep through the end of the world.’

‘Right.’ There’s a moment, two, and then Billy says, ‘I gotta piss,’ pushing away, and stalking across the room before Steve can say anything.

Steve runs a hand over his face and tips his head back against the window. The changes in Billy’s mood are dizzying.

It’s not long before the toilet flushes and the bathroom door opens, the stark light silhouetting Billy for a moment before he switches the light off. He pauses as he crosses the room, stooping to pick something up. The crown gleams in his hand as he moves back over to the bed and sits.

‘When did you realise?’ he asks, frowning at the plastic clutched in his hands.

Steve’s pulse jumps. ‘Realise what?’

‘That it was all bullshit.’

‘A few different times.’ Steve pushes off the wall and moves to sit on the edge of the bed. ‘Nancy, some stuff Dustin said, and everything that happened with Robin. It wasn’t just one thing.’ He huffs and taps his head. ‘Took a while to get through my thick skull.’

‘You do that a lot.’

‘What?’

‘Call yourself stupid.’

‘That’s not— I didn’t say that.’ Steve swallows. It’s like Billy sees right through him, sometimes, and he’s not sure how he feels about it. ‘And it was a joke.’

Billy looks at Steve like he doesn’t believe him, but he doesn’t say anything, just places the crown on his head. ‘What do you think? Would I make a good prom king?’

‘Yeah,’ Steve says. ‘You should’ve been.’

‘Prom’s not my thing.’ Billy takes the crown off, twirling it around one finger. ‘Bet your dad was prom king too, huh?’

‘Sure was.’ Steve nods, slowly, looking off to the side. ‘Dad and I were both prom king, both head of the prom committee, both in the Key Club, both Future Business Leaders of America. But Dad went to Harvard, and I couldn’t even get into Tech.’

‘Yeah, you’ve told me,’ Billy says, a bite edging into his voice. He sighs and shakes his head. ‘Look, it’s your life, not his. Who gives a shit?’

‘I just…I feel like I’m this huge disappointment.’

‘Well, fuck him.’

‘That’s easy for you to say,’ Steve says, but a second later he regrets it. ‘Shit, sorry, I didn’t mean—’

‘Don’t,’ Billy says, ‘whatever you were going to say: don’t.’

Steve blinks.

‘Anyway, pretty sure I’m a bigger disappointment.’ The competition in Billy’s words is belied by the flatness of his voice. ‘I just…I can never tell if my old man gives much of a shit about me. If it’s all because he wants me to be better, because he cares, or if he just doesn’t want me to step out of line and embarrass him.’

It’s not a question but Steve says, ‘Yeah,’ a sickening feeling welling up inside of him. His dad might not hit him, but Billy’s words, the feeling behind them, are too familiar.

‘There was one night, though,’ Billy says, finally glancing up at Steve, ‘when I was in the hospital…’ He trails off.

‘What happened?’

‘It’s stupid. I mean, I probably dreamt it, or something.’

The alarm clock hums, the trees outside rustle, the bed creaks.

‘Every time Dad came to the hospital, it was like he was doing a goddamn chore or something, bringing Max, with Susan tagging along.’ Billy swallows. ‘But this one night…I woke up, and I still don’t know if it was real, but Dad was there, just sitting by my bed. In one of those shitty plastic chairs they have.’

Steve makes a small sound, showing Billy he’s listening.

‘Well, he was sitting there, all rumpled, like he’d been there all night. And he had his head in his hands and I could swear he actually looked worried. Or— Or scared. I’ve never seen him…’

There’s a pause so long, Steve is compelled to fill it: ‘He…I mean, even if he…it doesn’t mean he wouldn’t be worried.’

Billy sniffs, not looking at Steve. ‘I guess. But even when I broke my arm as a kid, Dad just yelled at me for not being more careful and responsible. Like it was some big inconvenience to him. Like _I’m_ —’ His voice cracks.

Steve reaches out, stopping short of touching Billy, his fingers curled into the sheets. When Billy doesn’t say anything else, Steve says, ‘My dad yelled at me when I broke my arm, too.’

‘Yeah?’

Steve nods. He leaves out the part where his dad also yelled at his teachers, threatening to sue them for negligence, but he does say, ‘And he kept telling my mom not to make so much of a fuss over me, when I had my arm in a cast.’ He shrugs one shoulder. ‘He said it was a rite of passage, and babying me wouldn’t help.’

‘How old were you?’

‘Ten.’ Steve rubs his arm. ‘You?’

‘Seven.’

Something in Steve twists, and it only tightens when Billy adds, ’Should know better by seven. A boy’s gotta play ball and play hard, but he better not fall and break his arm.’ He huffs. ‘Told you: a big disappointment.’

‘At least you’re in good company,’ Steve says, bumping Billy’s knee with his own, the gesture so much lighter than he feels.

‘Yeah,’ Billy says, and his eyes are still damp but there’s the hint of a smile in them, too. ‘Fuck ‘em, anyway. Fuck both of ‘em.’

This time Steve says, ‘Yeah,’ and he almost means it.

The mattress creaks as Steve shifts his weight; Billy gives him an odd, almost questioning look, and Steve moves around until they’re side by side. Moments pass and Steve is so tired but he doesn’t want to sleep and he doesn’t want Billy to leave. Not that it looks like he’s going anywhere, and despite everything that’s been said, Steve finds himself smiling.

On the edge of sleep, he says, ‘Hey, uh, wanna listen to that tape again?’ his voice raspy and slurred.

‘It’s yours, now.’

Something flutters behind Steve’s ribs at that thought. ‘Yeah,’ he says, reaching across Billy to the bedside table, ‘then let’s listen to it.’

Billy takes the tape, slotting it into the Walkman, and hands the second set of headphones over.

They settle back, pressed close, hands almost touching where they rest on their thighs. Billy’s holding the Walkman, his thumb poised on the ‘play’ button, but he doesn’t move.

Steve reaches over, curling his hand around Billy’s, and presses play.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading! :D
> 
> I [have a moodboard for the fic over on Tumblr](https://gothyringwald.tumblr.com/post/628465456043507712/late-night-feelings-rated-m-wip-11-chs) as usual :)
> 
> I did start a playlist for Billy’s mixtape, but I felt like I was making too much supplementary material, so I didn’t finish XD But it was basically Zeppelin and Styx and Boston and Free and Black Sabbath and Blue Oyster Cult and more Aerosmith
> 
> Oh and [this is the pic of Don Johnson](https://imgur.com/a/eqGjUBZ) and Steve [does indeed have a poster of Kristie Brinkley](https://gothyringwald.tumblr.com/post/178494517545/steve-harringtons-room) by his bed haha


	6. SIX

‘Mind the last step, it’s wobbly.’

‘God, Harrington, you’re such an old woman.’ Billy hefts his side of the box, cardboard rough beneath his palms. Between them, it’s not that heavy, but it’s awkward carrying it backwards down the narrow stairs to the Harringtons’ basement. ‘I can handle a wobbly step.’ He snorts, but the next moment his footing falters. Wood creaks and his heart leaps into his throat, even as he manages to right himself before he stumbles. ‘Shit.’

There’s an _I-told-you-so_ noise and Steve is wearing this smug look, so Billy yanks the box as he steps onto the floor.

It makes Steve miss a step and he sends Billy a glare, saying, ‘And you’re such a dick,’ just this side of breathless.

‘Hey,’ Billy says, almost losing his grip as his eyes slide to the swell of Steve’s biceps beneath his shirt, ‘I’m spending my Friday night helping you put this shit together.’ He swallows. ‘A little gratitude would be nice.’

The box levels out as Steve takes the last step, joining Billy on the floor. The buzzing light overhead catches the sheen of sweat over his skin, and he’s not _glistening_ but it’s enough that Billy has to look away, glancing over his shoulder under the pretence of finding a clear space on the basement floor.

‘Whatever,’ Steve murmurs, setting his side down, and wiping his hands on his jeans. ‘My mom made you dinner, and I got her to make that coconut cake like I said I would.’ His shirt pulls tight over his chest as he stretches his arms and arches his back.

Fuck. Billy can’t tell if he’s glad Steve’s clothes usually disguise how _toned_ he is, or if he’s disappointed. He licks his lips and says, ‘Didn’t realise that was payment,’ voice coming out a little lower and rougher than he’d meant it to.

‘Anyway’—Steve points a finger at Billy—‘you offered to help. I didn’t ask.’

And, yeah, Billy _had_ offered. Over dinner—with Steve’s _mom_ , for Christ’s sake—Steve had mentioned he’d bought a barbell and a weight bench, and, without thinking what could be in it for him, Billy had said he’d help Steve put it together.

It’s barely even a one man job, but after dinner they’d picked it up and brought it back and it might feel weird to just help Steve, for no reason, but it feels good—right—too.

Steve runs a hand through his hair, pushing it off his face. ‘Thanks, though. For helping.’

‘Don’t sweat it.’

The corner of Steve’s mouth twitches even as he shakes his head, turning to the box. He pulls it open, and they both pull out the pieces of the weight bench, setting them on the floor. When the box is empty, Steve picks up the barbell rod, twirling it like it’s some kind of weapon.

‘Gimme that,’ Billy says, grabbing for the rod, but Steve steps out of his reach.

‘No,’ Steve says, ‘it’s fun.’

‘What are you, twelve?’ Billy rolls his eyes, ignoring the feeling squirming away in his stomach that’s a little too sweet for his liking. ’Do you wanna build it, or do you wanna play with it?’

‘We can do both.’ Steve’s eyes are soft and warm, amusement in them as he looks at Billy. He twirls the rod again, effortless and, Billy has to admit, pretty damn cool. He makes a motion with his free hand. ‘Come on.’

Billy reaches out, managing to grab the rod. ‘Quit fooling around.’ He tugs, but Steve is holding on tight. ‘How come you wanted this, anyway? Didn’t think you were into lifting.’

‘I wasn’t, but it was fun working out with you at your place, last week.’ Steve shrugs. ‘And you can come use it if you want. You said you don’t get much space, sometimes, if everyone’s home.’

Warmth rolls through Billy, starting somewhere under his ribs, and slowly spreading out. It’s not— Billy isn’t naïve enough to think Steve bought this _for_ him, but maybe he wanted it so they could work out together, and that’s close enough. ‘Yeah, well,’ he says, ‘guess you could use some expert guidance.’

A grin flashes over Steve’s face but it’s gone when a voice calls down the stairs, echoing off the walls.

‘Steve? That you down there?’ A shadowed figure appears on the stairs, nimbly avoiding the last wobbly step, and moving into the pool of stark light.

Steve steps back from Billy, fumbling the rod. It clangs on the bare floor. ‘Dad.’

Mr Harrington peers past Steve, to the pieces of the dismantled bench, brows raising. ‘What’s this?’

‘Mom said I could set it up down here.’

‘That’s not what I asked.’ Mr Harrington’s lips twitch.

Steve huffs. ‘It’s a weight bench.’

‘And I suppose I paid for it?’ Mr Harrington rests a hand on one hip, pushing aside his dark grey blazer.

Something sparks in Billy’s blood at Mr Harrington’s tone, but if it pisses Steve off, he doesn’t let it show.

‘No,’ Steve says, shifting his weight, ‘I did.’

‘At least that job’s teaching you something.’ Mr Harrington sounds almost impressed, but then he adds, ‘Do you really think it’s a good idea to spend your money on all this, though? This stuff is expensive.’

‘I got it secondhand…’

‘Secondhand?’ The word rolls around his mouth like it’s foreign to him. It probably is.

Steve looks at a loss, so Billy says, ‘It was a good price,’ and Mr Harrington finally looks at him. It’s like he hadn’t noticed Billy has been standing a foot away all this time.

‘I don’t think we’ve met,’ Mr Harrington says. His eyes never leave Billy’s face, but Billy still gets the feeling that he’s being sized up. Assessed.

‘You would have if you were actually home for dinner.’ Steve crosses his arms, lips pursed.

Everything in Billy tenses, poised for a fight. At his house, Steve’s words would have been enough for a screaming match at _best_.

But Mr Harrington’s gaze hasn’t wavered from Billy and he continues like Steve never even spoke: ‘Probably obvious by now, but I’m Steve’s dad.’ He extends a hand. ‘John Harrington.’

Billy takes it, thrown off-balance by Mr Harrington’s easy grin and how much it’s like Steve’s. But it’s a little too slick. ‘Billy,’ he says, looking Mr Harrington right in the eye, and squeezing his hand.

‘Good to meet you, Billy.’ Mr Harrington slips his hand away and tucks it into the pocket of his slacks. He nods at the mess of metal on the floor. ‘So, you’re helping my son set this thing up?’

‘Yes, sir,’ Billy says, and immediately hates himself. He hadn’t meant to call Mr Harrington ‘sir’ or sound so damn _polite_. He grits his teeth.

‘You like putting things together?’

‘Uh, I guess.’ What’s with this guy? Billy glances at Steve, but there’s nothing about him that says this is unusual, so maybe Mr Harrington’s just like this. Or maybe this is how all normal dads are. Somehow, Billy finds himself adding, ‘I prefer cars. I work at the garage,’ and wondering what made him say that.

‘Oh, you’re the mechanic friend who fixed Steve’s car?’

‘Yeah.’

‘Steve’s never been that handy,’ Mr Harrington says, slinging a casual arm around Steve’s shoulder, in a way Billy’s dad never has. He squeezes Steve to his side and adds, ‘No coordination.’ He throws a wink at Billy like he’s in on the joke, but Billy’s blood prickles.

Steve doesn’t seem fazed, like he’s used to this, too, though he looks vaguely annoyed.

But Billy can’t let it slide. ‘I don’t know,’ he says, slowly, hands clenching, ‘Steve’s a good ballplayer. Gotta be coordinated for that.’ As he says this, he realises he’d never seen Mr Harrington at any of their games. Not one. Billy’s dad had always been there. Sure, he was on Billy’s case after every game, telling Billy what he could do better, but he was _there_.

‘Always was more of a football man, myself,’ Mr Harrington says, sliding his arm from around Steve’s shoulder, and miming throwing a football.

With everything Steve had said the other night, in the quiet of his room, Billy had already thought Mr Harrington was a douche. But now that he’s met him he _knows_ that he is.

‘Dad,’ Steve says. Mr Harrington looks at him; Steve nods at the equipment. ‘We’re trying to set this up.’

‘And I guess it’s going to gather dust in a few weeks.’ Mr Harrington rests both his hands on his hips. ‘Just like your old bike and the basketball hoop you never even set up.’

‘I grew out of the bike and you were going to help—’ Steve sighs and says, ‘It doesn’t matter. But, uh, about basketball…’ He rubs the back of his neck. ‘I’ve been meaning to tell you, but I went to see the coach at Hawkins High.’

‘What for?’

‘To ask if I can help out. You know, coaching basketball or baseball.’ Steve shrugs a shoulder. ‘Just to do something more useful.’

‘You want to be a high school coach?’ Mr Harrington raises a brow. ‘You know you have to go to college to teach high school. And the salary—’

‘I know,’ Steve says, and Billy thinks he colours a little, but he’s not standing directly in the light, ‘it was just an idea.’ He presses his lips together. ‘It’s nothing.’

‘See what I mean’—Mr Harrington points a finger—‘no conviction.’

‘You just said—’

‘You gotta stick to your guns, Steve, or you’ll never get anywhere.’

‘I know.’

‘If you’re serious about something—’

‘I _know_.’

Mr Harrington sighs, turning away. It seems like this is a conversation they’ve had before, if not in specifics, then at least the general idea. The thought sits uneasily.

When Billy had spilled his guts to Steve about his dad, it had unsettled him to know Steve’s dad had never raised a hand to him. It was another chip in what Billy had thought was, if not an entirely normal life, at least not _weird_. But now… Billy guesses there are other ways to hurt your kids.

‘Well,’ Billy says, ‘this thing ain’t gonna put itself together.’ He nods at Steve. ‘You got a toolbox?’

There’s a flash of annoyance on Mr Harrington’s face, directed at Billy, then he says, ‘I’ll let you boys get to it. Make sure you tidy up, or your mother will have a fit.’

‘You could help us,’ Steve says.

They don’t need three people to put it together—and Billy does not want to spend another minute with Steve’s douchebag dad—but the look on Steve’s face stops Billy from saying so. It catches on something in his chest, something a little raw and too tender that’s usually kept hidden.

But Mr Harrington says, ‘You’ve got it covered,’ and, ‘Just came down to make sure you’re behaving,’ with another too-smooth smile.

‘That’s cool,’ Steve says, shoulders sagging. ‘I’ll see you later, I guess.’

‘Night, boys,’ Mr Harrington says, then disappears back up the stairs.

Silence falls, crawling beneath Billy’s skin, and twisting behind his ribs. ‘So’—he claps his hands; it rings in his ears—‘we gonna put this together?’

Steve is gnawing on his lip, frowning in the direction of the stairs, but he nods once and says, ‘Yeah, I’ll go find the toolbox,’ and walks off.

It’s not long before he comes back, hand curled tight around the handle of a red toolbox. Billy’s surprised the Harringtons even know what a toolbox is, but he gets the feeling one of his usual quips wouldn’t be welcome, right now. Normally, that wouldn’t stop him, but Steve lets the toolbox fall to the floor, metal clanging against metal and Billy just manages to stop himself from flinching.

‘What do we need?’ Steve asks.

‘Any wrench you’ve got will probably do.’

‘Right,’ Steve says, and throws the toolbox open. He pulls one tool out after another, muttering, ‘Where the fuck is it? I know it was in here.’

Billy crouches, shouldering Steve out of the way. ‘Here,’ he says, reaching for the wrench, testing the weight of it in his hand.

Steve makes a small, annoyed sound and pushes himself to his feet. ‘I was looking right at it.’

Billy grunts and holds out the wrench; Steve doesn’t take it.

Steve opens his mouth, then closes it again. He sucks in a breath and says, ‘I don’t feel like doing this, right now.’

‘So, what, you wanna prove your old man right?’

‘What does that mean?’

For a moment, Billy bites his tongue. It’s not his problem if Steve wants to leave this in pieces because he’s pissed at his dad. But it’s only a moment and then he says, ‘He thinks you’ve got no follow-through, and if you leave this because you don’t _feel like it_ , then maybe he’s right.’

Fire flickers in Steve’s eyes, kindling the spark in Billy’s gut. His jaw tightens and he stares Billy down, then he holds out his hand. ‘Fine,’ he says, ‘let’s put this stupid thing together.’

Billy winks. ‘Attaboy.’

Steve snorts, but he’s smiling, now, as he takes the wrench from Billy. ‘“Attaboy”, honestly,’ he says, ‘you sound like my grandpa.’

‘Shut up, Harrington,’ Billy says, pushing up his sleeves, without thinking. It’s still second nature, even after months of sleeves pulled tight over his wrists.

Steve’s eyes flicker to Billy’s forearms and Billy doesn’t miss the way they widen. Billy’s first instinct is to yank his sleeves down, but screw it. Hiding is getting pretty damn old, anyway. And if Steve has some kind of problem with looking at Billy’s fucked up arms, then Steve can deal with it.

If he does, he doesn’t say anything, just crouches down and asks Billy what to do first, so Billy shows him, the tightness in his chest easing.

It’s an easy job and Steve either already knew what he was doing, or is a faster learner than Billy gave him credit for. It should piss Billy off, that Steve accepted his help, and doesn’t even _need_ him.

But he’s oddly content to let Steve take over, to watch him as he threads screws and tightens bolts, and it’s not only because of how Steve’s fingers curl around the wrench. It’s the easy confidence in his movements, and how Billy _likes_ seeing Steve like this.

And it’s all going fine until Steve says, ‘Can you hand me the Ellen key,’ and Billy barks out a laugh.

‘The Ellen key?’

‘Yeah,’ Steve says, a frown slowly creasing his forehead. ‘You know. That thing over there.’

Billy bites his lip against another laugh. ‘You mean the Allen key.’

‘No—’ Steve pauses, still looking confused, then adds, ‘Uh, yeah, I guess.’

Billy snorts and picks up the Allen key, twirling it a few times before he holds it out, but Steve’s gaze is ducked and he’s chewing on his lip. Billy waggles the Allen key. ‘Hey, here you go.’

‘If that’s an Allen key,’ Steve says, slowly, ‘what’s an Ellen key?’

‘I don’t know, Allen key’s wife?’

‘Jesus Christ, now I know why Mr Thompson thought I was an idiot all semester when I took shop junior year.’ Steve shakes his head, turning away. ‘I always get words mixed up—’

‘I knew what you meant.’

‘—no wonder everyone thinks I’m dumb. Dumb ol’ Steve, with his stupid hair—‘

‘No one thinks your hair is—’

‘—or just plain stupid Steve. I’m a joke.’

Billy’s hand clenches around the Allen key, the metal digging into his palm. ‘Who thinks you’re a joke?’

‘Everyone.’ Steve waves a hand. ‘You. You’re always laughing at me.’

‘That’s not—’

‘And you heard my dad, earlier. He thinks I’m completely useless. And he’s right. I’m going to be _twenty_ next year, and I’m useless, and stupid, and a total embarrassment.’

‘Jesus Christ,’ Billy says, the Allen key clattering to the floor, ‘are you listening to yourself?’

Steve blinks. ‘What?’

‘You enjoying your pity party?’ Billy scoffs. ‘Yeah, I heard your dad, and he’s a prick by the way. But you just took it.’

Something in Steve hardens and his voice has a hint of ice in it when he says, ‘And you don’t?’

And there he is. The old Steve Harrington. The one Billy had heard so much about, his reform much lamented by assholes like Tommy H. It’s a kick in the guts, even if Steve blanches, looking like he stepped on a puppy’s tail.

‘Shit, I’m sorry, man,’ Steve says, ‘I didn’t mean that.’

‘Yeah, you did,’ Billy says, chest tight. A year ago, he would have whaled on Steve for less, beat the absolute shit out of him. He swallows thickly. A year ago, he did.

‘I shouldn’t have said—’

‘It doesn’t matter,’ Billy says. ‘This isn’t about me.’

‘Then what is it about?’

‘You.’ Billy steps forward, moving into Steve’s space. ‘And how you put yourself down all the time.’

‘I— No, I don’t.’ Steve shifts his weight, arms hugged around his stomach, frowning at Billy.

‘Yes. You do. You’re like a broken record. Play a new tune, Harrington.’

‘Sorry,’ Steve says, ‘didn’t realise I was so annoying,’ and looks off to the side.

Irritation flickers in Billy’s throat but he breathes through it, gritting his teeth. ‘That’s not what I meant.’ He runs a hand over his face. Fuck, he’s no good at this.

A strange sensation wells up inside of Billy. He wishes he could do that thing Steve does—the concern thing. He doesn’t know why because comforting people isn’t something he gives a shit about. He’s better at charming people or pissing them off in equal measure.

But comfort…that would be new. He’s never even tried it with Max. He usually gives her shit until she laughs, or tells him to fuck off. So, he’s not sure why he wants to do this with Steve, but he does, and it’s weird and a little bit terrifying.

‘That’s not what I meant,’ Billy repeats, softer now.

‘Then what did you mean?’

‘I just… You shouldn’t say those things about yourself, OK? You’re not stupid.’

‘I’m not exactly smart. I didn’t even get into college.’

‘God, no one cares, Steve!’ Billy spreads his arms. ‘Do you see me in college?’

‘That’s different,’ Steve says. ‘You… Anyway, you got in, didn’t you?’

‘I didn’t apply.’

‘Why not?’

‘This _isn’t_ about me.’ Billy sucks in a deep breath, nostrils flaring. ‘Look, just because you’re not book smart, doesn’t mean you’re _stupid_.’

‘So you do think I’m not smart,’ Steve says, face falling, and Billy’s stomach falls with it.

‘I said not book smart.’

‘What’s the difference?’

‘I—’ Fuck. Why did Billy start this? Why couldn’t he have punched Steve in the shoulder and told him to stop being such a girl and get on with putting the bench together? Then they could lift and work all this shit out with the burn in their muscles and Billy wouldn’t be caught in this mess.

‘Why are you getting so worked up, anyway? Why do you care if I think I’m stupid?’ Steve turns his face away and mutters, ‘No one else does.’

And that’s the biggest load of bullshit Billy’s ever heard because Steve has _so_ many people who care about him. It’s fine because he deserves it. All of it. Billy knows that as well as he knows anything. But an ugly feeling tangles up in him the longer he thinks about it. Because people care about Steve, but how many people _see_ him?

It’s crazy how little attention people really pay to Steve when it comes to the things that matter.

‘Well, they’re all assholes,’ Billy says.

‘They’re not assholes. And you didn’t tell me why _you_ care.’

‘Because.’

‘“Because”? Wow, yeah, thanks. That explains everything.’

‘Look, I just care, OK?’ Billy’s stomach flutters. It’s the closest he’s come to admitting—

‘You know what, forget it. It doesn’t matter.’

‘It does because you’re—’

‘I’m what?’

Everything Billy has kept buried for so long rushes up from the depths of him and he blurts, ‘The best! You’re the best, OK?’

Shit. Of all the things he could have said, of all the ways he could have said them, he ends up sounding like a lovestruck kid. _Gee, Steve, you’re the best!_ What a dick.

But the frown fades from Steve’s face, making way for a smile that’s equal parts delighted, shy, and amused. ‘The best, huh?’

‘Shut up.’

‘No, no, I like it.’ Steve’s cheeks are flushed and his eyes sparkle in the shitty basement lighting. ‘Steve Harrington. The Best. Got a nice ring to it.’

‘Shut. Up.’ This is why Billy never wanted to say anything—it doesn’t matter that, sometimes, over the past few weeks, it’s felt like Steve might feel the same. Because it’s dumb and Steve is laughing at him and Billy wants to hit something or maybe disappear.

‘If you think I’m gonna let you live this down…’ Steve trails off, looking at Billy in a way that’s too considering. He softens, ducking his gaze and sucking his bottom lip between his teeth. ‘It’s…I appreciate it. You trying to make me feel better.’

Billy’s heart thuds. ‘That’s not what I was doing.’

‘Uh…’ Steve’s brows lift. ‘OK? Then why—’

‘I wanted to—’

‘You wanted to what?’

Billy’s breaths are coming faster, and his ears are ringing. He can’t keep talking about this. Talking is stupid, anyway, and it’ll never get Billy anywhere. Not now, not when it matters. So, he lets instinct take over and he steps forward, until he’s toe to toe with Steve.

Steve doesn’t move back but he shifts his weight, tongue darting over his bottom lip. ‘Billy, what—’

‘This,’ Billy says, and finally kisses Steve. It’s firm and it’s brief and it’s what Billy has wanted for so long but it’s laced with panic. The other night, in Steve’s room, Billy had been certain they were going to kiss. That Steve was going to kiss him.

But what if Billy was wrong, and Steve doesn’t want…

But Steve’s lips catch on Billy’s and his hands come up to Billy’s waist and he kisses Billy back. And he kisses him and kisses him and it’s all Billy’s wanted for _so long_. As Steve moves, though, the edge of his hand skims Billy’s bare forearm, grazing one of the scars.

It sends a wave of cold-hot-cold through Billy and he jerks back, turning away. He doesn’t get far.

A hand curls around his wrist, pulling gently. ‘Billy,’ Steve says, but he doesn’t say anything else. Because he tugs and Billy goes—he wouldn’t, not for anyone else—and it’s so much easier to fall into another kiss than it is to put words to everything inside.

This time there is no panic, only Steve’s mouth moving against his and a feeling of _right_ low in his gut. It’s Steve’s hand cupping Billy’s jaw, his touch light but not tentative. It’s Billy sliding his tongue into Steve’s mouth and fisting his hands at Steve’s waist.

It’s Steve pulling their bodies flush and touching Billy in a way no one has touched him in months.

It’s hot and deep and soft and it’s everything Billy was trying to say.

‘Do you get it?’ Billy asks when they break apart. They stay close, though, and he can feel Steve’s breath on his face. ‘Do you get it now?’

Steve nods, eyes wide, lips shining. ‘Yeah, got it loud and clear.’ His lips twitch. ‘But maybe you could run it by me again?’

Billy huffs but he’s smiling as he crowds in to kiss Steve, backing him toward the bench until Steve sits and Billy is half-kneeling above him.

They keep kissing and kissing and everything falls away until Steve runs his hands down Billy’s forearms, palms grazing the spidery red scars. And then the heat rushing Billy is no longer the burn of pleasure, but a sickly, prickling thing. It unbalances him and he puts too much of his weight on the bench and it slips and Billy stumbles back.

‘Shit,’ Steve says, laughter in his voice as he straightens himself, ‘we didn’t break it, did we? I’ve never broken furniture from _kissing_ before.’

But his words seem faraway, tinny. Billy can hear them, and he knows what they mean, but they’re not breaking through. An image flashes in his mind—black crawling through his veins—rooting him to the spot.

‘Billy?’

A gentle brush of fingers over his wrist. Billy comes back, though he was never fully gone, not like the other times, and blinks over at Steve. But he’s in too-sharp focus and looking at him is too hard, right now, so Billy goes over to the bench. The metal is cool against his hands as he checks it over.

‘Everything OK?’ Steve asks, crouching beside Billy.

‘Yeah, it just wasn’t done up tight enough.’

‘I didn’t mean—’ Steve presses his lips together, and he’s looking down at where his hands are folded between his knees.

It sends an inexplicable pang through Billy, so he forces himself to say, ‘C’mon, let’s finish this and then you can spot me,’ with as much of his usual confidence as he can muster.

It must work because Steve smiles up at Billy, raising a brow and saying, ‘ _I_ can spot _you_? It’s my bench.’

The weirdness is slowly receding, leaving only a slight tremor around Billy’s edges. ‘I’m doing you a favour, so you owe me, remember,’ he shoots back, tongue between his teeth.

‘And my mom cooked you dinner, _remember_?’

‘You can have it back, if you want.’ Billy makes a fake gagging noise, finger in his mouth.

Steve gives him a light shove on the shoulder. ‘You’re disgusting.’

‘It’s all part of my charm.’ Billy winks.

And Billy expects another smartass retort—it’s what they do, after all—but Steve only says, ‘Yeah, I guess it is,’ softness in his voice and eyes. He reaches past Billy for the wrench, and sets to work again.

It takes Billy a moment to move, but when he does, the weirdness from earlier has passed, and he could almost believe it was never there. He chalks it up to being out of practice with all of this, pushing away the thought that maybe he’s a freak and this is another thing that’s been taken—

No. He focusses on the last few bolts, hand tightening around the wrench, breathing slowly. ‘All done,’ he says.

‘Me too.’

‘Cool.’ Billy pushes himself to his feet, patting the bench, and looks over at Steve. ‘You did good.’

The pleased smile Steve gives him makes that too-sweet feeling from earlier well up again. But Steve shrugs a shoulder and says, ‘I didn’t do it alone.’

‘Learn how to take a compliment, Harrington. I don’t give them out for nothing.’ Before Steve can respond, Billy adds, ‘So, you ready to spot me?’

‘No’—Steve cocks a hip—‘I’m ready for you to spot me.’

Billy juts his chin at Steve. ‘I’ll flip you for it.’

‘I don’t have any coins.’

‘Don’t need one,’ Billy says, stepping over the bench, and moving toward Steve, who gives him a baffled smile. It’s soon wiped from his face as Billy grabs him, one arm around his waist, the other around his thigh, and picks him up.

Pain spikes in Billy’s side, but he ignores it, revelling in Steve’s surprised yelp and his hands grabbing Billy’s thighs and how they feel through the denim.

‘Put me down!’

‘Hm, no, not yet,’ Billy says.

Only Steve is heavier—and wrigglier—than he looks and it unbalances Billy and he can’t catch them before they both go down. It’s only as they fall that Billy remembers how freaked out Steve had gotten when they were wrestling at his house, the other week, and his pulse leaps.

But Steve mostly looks a little pissed, and a lot amused, as he groans from beneath Billy, moving his head side to side. ‘I can’t believe you did that.’

Billy lets out a breath. ‘I said I’d flip you for it.’

There’s another groan, tinted with laughter this time. ‘You’ve flipped,’ Steve says, wincing as he shifts. His chest pushes against Billy’s with each breath.

‘That so?’

‘Yeah, flipped your lid.’

Billy licks his lips. ‘You saying I’m crazy?’

‘Maybe. A little.’ Steve’s lips quirk. ‘I like it, though. I like…’ His expression sobers and he sucks his bottom lip between his teeth. ‘I mean, I think you’re… You’re, um…’His brows knit and his lips press into a thin line.

‘I’m what?’

Steve shakes his head, then he leans up, catching Billy’s mouth, hand skating Billy’s jaw.

Billy lets the kiss pull him under, so easy to surrender to it, but he soon breaks away and pushes off of Steve. He reaches a hand down, helping Steve to his feet, then he says, ‘You can go first,’ still grasping Steve’s hand.

‘Thanks, that’s so generous of you, letting me use my own bench first.’

‘Generosity is my middle name.’ Fuck. What is he saying? Billy clears his throat. ‘Anyway, you’ve got more work to do.’ He winks and squeezes Steve’s bicep. It’s firm, fits to the curve of his palm.

‘Hey, not all of us are natural born muscle men,’ Steve says, colour high in his cheeks.

‘You know it.’ Billy grins, flexing his biceps, and though Steve rolls his eyes, Billy doesn’t miss the way they darken, too. It hits him, then, that Steve _wants_ him for real and the thought settles low within him. Curling warmth in his gut.

He scratches his stomach and nods at the bench. ‘Come on, time’s a-wasting.’

‘Just like my grandpa,’ Steve says, brushing past Billy to lie down on the bench.

Billy ignores Steve’s jibe and moves around behind him. ‘Need a lift off?’

‘Uh, yeah, thanks.’

Billy curls his hands inside Steve’s grip on the barbell, skin just touching. ‘Ready?’

‘Yeah,’ Steve says, ‘ready.’

‘Right,’ Billy says, and waits for Steve’s count before he lifts the barbell off, gradually giving less support until Steve signals he’s got the full weight.

‘How’m I doing?’ Steve grunts out.

‘Looking good.’

Steve smiles up at Billy, so damn pleased, and says, ‘Thanks.’

The warmth curling in Billy grows hotter and brighter. He keeps his hands near, but not touching, Steve's—just close enough that if Steve’s grip falters, Billy will be there to catch it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading! :)
> 
> Sorry this chapter is both shorter and later - going through a tough time personally and not sure how it’s going to pan out, so writing is very difficult, right now, but I’m trying to keep it going :)
> 
> Anyway, sorry - doesn’t feel appropriate to talk about personal stuff here! It’s not my diary haha 
> 
> But, uh, there’s [a moodboard on Tumblr](https://gothyringwald.tumblr.com/post/628465456043507712/late-night-feelings-rated-m-wip-11-chs) if you like and I’ve got [a soundtrack on Spotify](https://open.spotify.com/playlist/17F53OPoe7IFHjndQT7blE?si=F01-7HONQri2Qg1N7AgUlQ) :)
> 
> And on another note, the Harringrove Holiday Exchange is up and running again this year so if you want to join or [read more about it you can do so here](https://archiveofourown.org/collections/harringroveholidayexchange2020) :)


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